ReVival 70

A few ReVivals back, you may remember that the show began with the Universal Championship bedazzling the viewing audience and the whole Target Center as it took its place sitting atop a Roman-columnesque plinth, the belt angled to ensure that the “Cecilworth Farthington” nameplate is taking pride of place in the eye of the camera.

And of course, where the championship is, well, the champion will be there too. Dressed in an almost salmon-coloured suit jacket, white shirt underneath, a few buttons loosened as a little something for the mums… and the dads… and those without children too to be honest. Farthington is definitely showing bruising after his battle with Cancer Jiles at Ultraviolence that proved “Glue Friends Stick Together” to be scientific fact, as every movement he makes is much more slow and laboured than you would usually expect from your windy Universal Champ.

The pain is easy to overcome for Farthington as he admires the thing he went through the agony for. The champ gives the belt a cheeky lil kiss right in the centre of the plate, and then turns his attention to the audience, the level of self-satisfied smugness is likely incalculable in this moment.

Cecilworth Farthington: Tonight, 32 of PRIME’s finest warriors begin a long journey that ends with just one of them being able to claim the glory, fame and infamy that comes with surviving wrestling’s toughest tournament. As someone who was a few footsteps away from that pinnacle the last time, I know what this tournament does to you. It tests you. It sees if you are worthy. The Almasy is the launching point to an assured legacy in this sport. Don’t believe me.

Farthington leans against the pillar, admiring his belt a little as he holds up four fingers.

Cecilworth Farthington: Every single semi-finalist in the last Almasy has since gone on to claim the PRIME Universal Championship, because the Almasy builds winners. It builds… monsters. JCH. Sykes. Avalon. Farthington.

Farthington counts each finger as he says the name of each of the semi finalists.

Cecilworth Farthington: Some of us even learned how much it takes not just to win the Universal Champion, but how to hold on to it when everyone is knocking down at your door.

Farthington gives a cheeky chuckle because he’s a cheeky boy.

Cecilworth Farthington: I once declared myself The Finish Line of Professional Wrestling. I didn’t do it out of a sense of grandeur, I did it to remind everyone of what the true ultimate prize is for toughing it out in the battle of a meat grinding tournament. To remind them people that tournaments aren’t about your petty battles with enemies both real and imagined, no, tournaments are about training you in what it takes to reach greatness. All 32 competitors have that opportunity right now, that opportunity to be sharpened, to be hardened, to be battle tested. One though, one will shine brighter than all others, one will be able to claim a title that even I can’t… that of Almasy Winner.

Farthington admires the Universal Title a bit more, not in like a Vickie way though, that would be gross. More of a “oh this is a validation machine” way, so that’s much more healthy and normal than belt sex.

Cecilworth Farthington: But I stand here, once more, telling you that moment when you accept your Almasy victory, when your name gets etched into greatness, that isn’t The Finish Line. Enjoy it, but don’t enjoy it for too long. Your journey will actually just be starting, weary traveller, because you get to enjoy that tournament victory for a few seconds before you know you are on a collision course for this…

Cecilworth slaps the plate of the Universal Championship in a “you can get so many stories in this bad boy” manner.

Cecilworth Farthington: And I plan to still be its keeper.

Another wry smile from a man who felt like “hot pink” really was the best suit colour for the summer season.

Cecilworth Farthington: For one of you, five matches of pain, five matches of digging deep and finding out things about yourself that you didn’t even know, five matches of scores that could be settled… well that brings you close to the finish line…

Another look to the belt.

Cecilworth Farthington: But will you still have enough in you to cross it? I guess it’s time to find out.

A cheeky wink to the camera from our precious Universal Champion brings us to the moment of fading out of this scene, the Almasy moments away from commencing.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/ReV70-Commercial.mp4

Brace yourselves, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. It’s about to get real dumb.

Did you know that “Sandstorm” by Darude had lyrics? No, neither did I. And I bet the band would be very surprised to learn that someone had taken their dancehall hit and added words to it. Imagine their shocked expressions as they realized that those lyrics were just a name repeated in time with the synth beat.

Le-le-le-lemieux
STEVE Le-le-le-lemieux
Le-le-le-lemieux
Le-le-le-lemieux
Le-le-le-lemieux
Le-le-le-lemieux
Le-le-le-le-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-le-le-muh MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-lemieux
Le-le-le-le-le-lemieux
Le-muh-le-muh-muh-lemieux

It goes on like this for a while.

Vince Howard: From Peoria, Illinois he weighs in tonight at 183 pounds…

There is no crowd reaction for any of this, by the way. No cheers. No boos. Not a goddamn peep. It’s quiet enough that you can hear a single cough.

Vince Howard: He is “Mister Beefst”… STEEEEEEEEVE LEMIIIEEEEEUUUUUXXX!!

Total fucking crickets time out here in the arena.

Steve stumbles out through the curtain dressed like a man who’s ready to clock in for his shift at the local Geek Squad. He’s wearing a pair of khakis, a white polo shirt tucked into those very pants, with some knee pads on the outside of his clothes and – for reasons that probably make a great deal of sense to him – swimming floaties on his upper arms. Oh, and let’s not forget the red, white, and blue sweatband and the well-loved pair of New Balance sneakers.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Steve has some company tonight, Richard.

Indeed he does! Three people step through the curtain a few feet behind Steve. One of them is dressed like a small child who raided his parents’ closet trying to find the perfect supervillain costume, only this child is around 70 years old, so you know all the clothes are his. Brown ski mask. Purple fedora. Sport coat. Frilly shirt. Plaid pants. Bowling shoes.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. sure does know how to dress. At least that’s what he tells people.

The second is tall, lanky, and looks like what you’d get if Rick Rude fucked Dalton Castle on top of vintage Shawn Michaels while Magnum TA was forced to watch (he can’t participate because of the accident, you see). His name is “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody, and he’s kind of a twat.

The third looks to be around 20 years old, is dressed in basic athleisure – which is worlds apart from what someone like Chandler Tsonda would consider athleisure – and looks like he would rather be literally anywhere else. World, meet Ollie Cade. Ollie Cade, world.

Richard Parker: I… have no goddamn idea who any of these people are.

Nick Stuart: I’m told that’s Oliver Cade and Rick Hardbody, both of whom competed in the Belmont Classic last year.

Richard Parker: Good for them, I guess.

Nick Stuart: And you’ve seen Zeke before. He’s been on PRIME television. You know, during Tag Team Survivor.

Richard Parker: Nick, I spent a great deal of time and energy erasing that entire event from my brain. Let’s not go bringing it back up, ‘k?

Steve makes his way to the ring, and almost trips over his own feet trying to ascend the ring steps. Things don’t get any better when he’s on the apron, as after around thirty seconds of trying to figure out the best way through the ropes it’s left to Vince Howard to hold them open so Steve doesn’t get stuck.

A piercing siren rings out as a blue Fleur de Lis fades into existence on the big screen. As the bluesy riff of Émeute Dans La Prison blares through the arena, images of Montreal flash along to the beat. The first few are glitzy, glamourous landscape pictures of the skyline, but they gradually shift more and more into the underbelly of the city, until images of low-income neighbourhoods adorned with graffiti are playing on the Tron.

The chorus kicks in and out marches Luc Labelle, an almost-permanent scowl etched onto his face. He’s a killer, but not a silent one, as he jaw-jacks in French with any fan that dares to boo him. The man just doesn’t shut the fuck up, no matter whether or not anybody can understand him.

When he finally rolls into the ring, as intense as ever, the young man can’t help but to shit-talk either directly to his opponent’s face or right into the camera. He runs his mouth any chance he gets, all things that the network would surely censor if he were to say them in English. Can he cash the checks that his mouth has been writing?

Richard Parker: I have to say, he’s as intense as ever.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: I can’t describe it, Nick – I just get this feeling. Intense as ever.

Jimmy Turnbull checks both the opponents for any type of weapon and then calls for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Labelle wastes absolutely no time going to work here as he locks Steve up in a headlock and begins reigning fists on his head. There’s an air of confiden–

Richard Parker: Cocksureness.

Nick Stuart: *Disregarding the interruption* -ce to Labelle here, like he knows this is easy work.

Richard Parker: Well, he’s done it before. This is muscle memory at this point.

After a smoothly executed running bulldog, Labelle gets up quickly and pantomimes rude gestures towards the crowd. The fans boo him and some in the front row threaten to throw their drinks.

Richard Parker: That crap went over a lot better for him in Canada. This? This is the American Midwest. These people were raised on corn. He’s liable to wind up mounted on someone’s wall if he keeps this up.

Nick Stuart: Labelle on the attack again as Lemieux shows signs of stirring. He gets a running start and rebounds off the ro- NO! Rick Hardbody sweeps the leg from the outside.

Richard Parker: Ah, I figured Hardbody for a Cobra Kai guy. I like the cut of his jib.

The Frenchman’s face is rapidly introduced to the mat. Outside the ring Ollie pulls Rick away from the ring and issues a stern warning, to which Rick shrugs in a “who, me?” fashion. Ollie then moves to where Lemieux is standing – the picture of fear, cowering, shaking. The camera doesn’t pick up the audio, but Ollie is clearly giving Lemieux pointers on how to capitalize on this opportunity. In a beautiful moment of prose in action, Ollie is Dorothy convincing the Cowardly Lion Lemieux that he can do it.

With clear eyes and a full heart, Lemieux charges at Labelle.

Richard Parker: Oh my god, Nick we are all witnesses to a miracle.

Lemieux stutter steps across the ring toward the dazed Labelle and cautiously raises one of his scrawny arms for a clothesline.

Nick Stuart: Dear god, I think you’re right, Dick. Steve Lemieux is about to mount an offensive attack.

The fans, Nick and Richard, the whole world waits on the edge of their seat with bated breath in anticipation of Steve Lemieux hitting Luc Labelle with a clothesline. This is the Berlin Wall falling for PRIME. Labelle looks up just in time to see the arm coming at him, right before it connects with his chest. A few scattered preemptive cheers erupt. For one moment, there is peace in the world.

Nope.

Labelle ducks under the arm and completely fucking decimates Lemieux with a urange the likes of which the world has never seen. Lemieux looks like a bobblehead upon impact. Whatever he might have up there in that beefy noggin is bouncing around like two racoons in a canvas sack set out in the Georgia sun.

Richard Parker: This is the day the music died.

Nick Stuart: Indeed. The violence doesn’t stop with that urange, either. Labelle is now reigning down shots on Lemieux’s face. It’s almost like he’s insulted that Lemieux didn’t just lay down for him. He hits Lemieux with a non-stop assault, kicks and a belly to belly suplex followed up with a standing elbow drop. Brutal.

Richard Parker: Welcome to the Luc Labelle show.

Double L shows absolutely no mercy.

A series of german suplexes with Lemieux’s head bouncing off the mat in a more ungodly manner each time. Elbow drop from the top rope followed up directly with an exploder suplex. Labelle takes zero prisoners, pulling Lemieux up by his hair for a snap DDT before whatever brain is left inside the paint can that is Mr Beefst’s head is out of the paint mixer.

It honestly reaches a point where it’s just sad as The Montreal Main Event continues his onslaught with one move after another, each increasing in intensity. Piledrivers. Knee drops. A few various kicks layered in for good measure.

Nick Stuart: This ought to stopped.

Richard Parker: What the hell is that geriatric harebrain doing?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, esq. Is standing on the apron now, arguing with Jimmy Turnbull. The ref keeps telling him to get down and Zeke keeps acting like he’s going to climb through the ropes. They play a little game of cat and mouse with Zeke finally acquiescing and going to jump off the apron. Sike! Zeke waits until Turnbull begins to turn around before beginning to climb through the ropes. This warrants a physical interaction with Turnbull, to which Zeke begins shouting he’s a lawyer and he will sue.

Meanwhile, Ollie is yelling at Lemieux to get up. Labelle, obviously frustrated by the constant interference, relents on his jihad against Lemieux. He abandons the Beefster and walks toward Zeke, aiming to give him terrible violence.

Nick Stuart: While Turnbull and Ollie are distracted, Rick Hardbody slips in the ring and decks Labelle from behind with a lariat.

Richard Parker: You have to give this outfit credit – they really work together.

Nick Stuart: This feels more like the Charlie Brown Christmas Dance than some coordinated effort, but it has been effective in keeping Lemieux alive.

Richard Parker: Charlie Brown or Seal Team Six – that’s a feat either way.

Ollie manages to get in the ring and pulls Hardbody away with a shove. For a moment it looks like the tag team may have a go at one another, but eventually Hardbody smirks and makes his way out of the ring.

Richard Parker: Valiant effort by Hardwhatever, but it looks like it was all for naught. Lemieux isn’t stirring.

Nick Stuart: But Labelle is. He’s holding his head, but he honestly just looks pissed off from the constant interference. He gets a running start and drops a knee on the throat of the downed Lemieux. Despite the pain that had to cause, it barely stirs the Sandwich Man.

Labelle, agitated with the three ring circus at ringside, is ready to put the nail in the coffin. He holds a limp-ish Lemieux up by his hair.

Richard Parker: He’s saying something to Lemieux in that gibberish he speaks.

Nick Stuart: You mean French?

Richard Parker: To-mayto, to-matoh, Nick.

The fans boo while Labelle bends over and hooks his arms. Is this it? Lights out for the Sandwich Man? It sure as shit looks like it as Labelle twists around, easily hoisting Lemieux up on his back. With a sickening crunch, The Montreal Main Event drops Mr. Beefst on his head.

Richard Parker: I’m no doctor, but I don’t think your neck is supposed to bend like that.

Nick Stuart: No, Dick, it’s not. Labelle is looking to put a pin in this one now as he rolls a completely flaccid Steve Lemieux over for the pin.

Jimmy Turnbull slides in for the count.

ONE 

TWO 

THREE!

But wait, no the fuck he doesn’t because he’s actually being distracted (again) by Zeke. This time Zeke and Turnbull are a pretzel of arms and legs and yelling whilst Ollie tries his best to separate the two.

Nick Stuart: This isn’t good, Dick.

Richard Parker: Come on Turnbull, do your job!

Nick Stuart: Here comes Rick.

Labelle sees Rick Hardbody coming this time and leaps to his feet, ready to fend off the attack. Unfortunately for Luc, it’s a day late and a dollar short. Hardbody has also had enough of this farce.

The arena lights above cause a glimmer on the object in Rick Hardbody’s hand and it distracts Labelle for a split second. Just long enough for “Rock Hard” to turn Labelle’s dome piece into an omelette – one that has been dropped on the floor. Double L hits the canvas like a guy who just got fucking brained with a set of brass knuckles.

Hardbody easily lifts up Lemieux with one hand, twisting the downed Labelle onto his back with the other. Before exiting the ring he signals to Zeke.

By the time Jimmy Turnbull turns around, all he sees is Steve Lemieux pinning Labelle.

Richard Parker: Oh my god.

The ref slides down beside the pile of Canadian in the ring and begins the count.

Richard Parker: NO! YOU IDIOT!

ONE…

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD…. OH MY GOD

TWO…

Richard Parker: THIS CAN’T HAPPEN! NO! STEVE LEMIEUX IS GOING TO WIN THE WRESTLING MATCH! LEMIEUX IS GOING TO WIN THE WRESTLING MATCH!

THREE…

Is this all a fever dream? It must be. There is absolutely no way that Steve Lemieux just defeated Luc Labelle.

Nick Stuart: HE DID IT!

It is not a fever dream and Lemieux is triumphant.

Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

Dr. Zeke and Generation H slide into the ring and lift the unconscious Lemieux high above their heads. It’s a true Weekend at Bernie’s Moment, Lemieux’s limp body bouncing unnaturally as Generation H and Dr. Zeke celebrate this colossal moment that will surely go down in the annals of PRIME as one of the greatest upsets of all time.

Nick Stuart: The fans are rushing the ring!

The arena is mass pandemonium. It’s absolutely biblical. We cut to commercial as PRIME security tries to regain control.

With THE NEWS having been newsed, we now find ourselves just outside the Target Center where Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz are standing by. Kenny is already in his wrestling gear, ready to head to ringside later to face Hayes Hanlon, but Randall? He’s dressed up in his Scherlock Schwartz getup, with a magnifying glass…and he is the first to speak.

Randall Schwartz: Good evening, Multiversemaniacs and jarboni PRIMEates without a life who–

His rant is cut off by a side-eye from Freeman, forcing the Entertainer to change course.

Randall Schwartz: Good evening, Minneapolis! Scherlock Schwartz here, ready to solve the biggest mystery of 2025…when will Kenny Freeman’s time in the spotlight come?

He motions to his friend, who poses as Randall continues.

Randall Schwartz: Behold! After a shaky first half of the year, Kenny is ready to take his rightful place as the true rising star of PRIME…and what better time than here, in Almasy Invitational season! That’s right, PRIMEates and Multiversemaniacs, Kenny Freeman is here now to ADDRESS THE ALMASY…tell ‘em, Kenny!

Kenny gives a nod before stepping up, feeling quite “geeked up” as the kids would say.

Kenny Freeman: It’s been a long time coming, but we are back in Almasy season…and you know what that means! A rocky road between now and the finals at Ascension, and your boy Kenny Freeman is making like Cake and going the distance!

Randall mouths “he’s going for speed” as Kenny presses on.

Kenny Freeman: There’s a whole chessboard of players looking to checkmate their way to a shot at the Universal Title, but ol’ KFree has been studying the tapes and knows exactly the right moves to make. Scott Hunter and Doozer are about to go at it, and the Bracketology seems to suggest that once I get past the Event Horizon I’ve got one of them to contend with.

Randall Schwartz: Bracketology? Isn’t that the Tom Cruise religion, with the goofy ass building we keep trying to TP back in Los An–

Kenny motions for his pal to shush, to which Randall obliges before Kenny moves on.

Kenny Freeman: My point is, I am giving this my absolute all to prove just who the hell I am. I gotta lotta beef with some folks in this tournament, it’s a shame I can’t face each and every single one of them before heading to Ascension to earn my title shot. But I need y’all to know that you are ON NOTICE, whether directly or indirectly, because goodness knows there is some stiff competition this year.

Randall mouths “so stiff” as Kenny continues.

Kenny Freeman: I don’t care if you’re a Bandit, a so-called Hero, a Whoresman, or anything in between…to me, you’re just a stepping stone on the path to greatness. This is Almasy season, alright, but more importantly it’s Kenny season! I will prove myself to the Red Army and to everyone watching here and at home…even if I gotta eventually get through my Starshy Praporshchik to do so!

Suddenly, as if the mere mention of the Russian Bear has brought an omen, a nearby door creaks open to reveal Ivan’s agent, Alexei Ruslan. He takes a look at Kenny and Randall before giving a nod to them.

Alexei Ruslan: Gentlemen, we have important business to attend to tonight. Proceed back to the Red Army locker room after your match, Kenny.

The pair give a nod back to Alexei, who retreats into the Target Center. Kenny looks to Randall, directing his next statement to the Entertainer.

Kenny Freeman: You heard the man. We got bidness.

Randall nods before heading toward the door, with Freeman turning his attention back to the camera.

Kenny Freeman: Hayes Hanlon, you’re my number one with a got-dang bullet in this tournament. When the dust has settled, it’s gonna be a cruel summer for you and your Glue Crew. See ya in the ring.

With that, Kenny takes his leave and so do we from the scene.

…Previously On…

…THE NEWS…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max Kael: Some people love the brutality of rugby, the athleticism of soccer or the heart pumping excitement of the Cops tv show. For those of us that love all three… there’s TASER BALL!

Max laughs maniacally as he holds a taser above his head, the famous crackle of high voltage electricity cracking above his head. Alongside him are Daniel Green, Hugo Vale and Dr. Ned Reform.

Opposing these four men?

The Herald’s of course, a gaggle of multicolored things darting widely across their own side of the TASER BALL field.

Hugo Vale: Hmm. So, it’s just oversized soccer, but we can use our hands — and it’s legal to use tasers?

The lighter half of the Green Vale Gang looks down at the taser in his hand with a skeptical eye before looking back up at Max.

Max Kael: Yup, get the big-ass ball over there.

Max points at the Taser Ball ball, which is about three times as large as a traditional soccer ball.

Max Kael: Into that big goal over there.

He then points toward an oversized soccer goal net on the other side of the field.

Max Kael: … and you use the tasers to stop your opponents from doing the same!

His wild eyes dart around, picking out a target before settling on the Orange Herald, Secretariate Van der Crush. Jabbing the taser into Van der Crush’s back haunch, or possibly the shoulder of someone pretending to be the back half of a horse stuffed into a horse costume. Max is kicked and sent flying a few feet back before crumbling into a heap.

Daniel, Hugo and Ned look at each other.

Hugo Vale: … Should we?

Daniel Green: No.

Green dismisses the idea of helping Max, barely paying attention to what is happening. Hugo gives the heap of Max a dispassionate look before shrugging.

Hugo Vale: Nice, I wanted to taser some nerds more anyway.

The screams of the numerous Heralds soon fill the space as Hugo begins his assault on the denizens of Heraldry. Dr. Ned Reform engages in helpful encouragement of Hugo’s hunting of their opponents. Daniel Green, however, remains unmoved,disinterested and slightly detached from the situation. Bored isn’t the right word here, perhaps brooding fits better?

Yes, brooding.

BZZZRT!

Green goes stiff as a board before falling to the side, twitching occasionally. Standing over him is the rotund, diminutive figure of the Green Herald, Giuseppe Gargamelo dela Schlupp III.

Giuseppe Gargamelo dela Schlupp III: I was a cop for three months in the 90ies until I was fired when they discovered I was working at a strip club, so I know my way around a taser.

Spinning the taser in his left hand, Giuseppe looks pretty smug. That is until Green’s fist rockets from the ground like a meme coin on its first day of circulation. It connects with Guiseppe’s third chin, lifting the small man up into the air in an almost comical display of power.

The Herald’s Herald hangs in the sky for a moment as everyone turns in shock and horror. Save for Max who is laying on his belly, his ankles crossed with a dumb grin on his bandaged face.

Daniel Green lets out a roar. Not some bestial, savage thing you’d expect from an uncontrollable monster. It’s a dominant, powerful roar akin to a tiger proclaiming their sovereignty over the jungle.

That’s right, a tiger, not some pussy lion. Do you know that Tiger roars are used in movies instead of lions because they’re better sounding? Also lions live in the plains, tigers are the apex predators of the jungle, male and female!

Fuck your lions.

So anyway, Green starts going off. It’s Herald hunting season as Green begins chasing down whatever colorful character happens to be nearby, frustration dealt out in a methodical, practiced manner.

Max snickers to himself before he notices a shadow pass over him. Turning his eyes toward the exit he sees the Basilisk Herald and seated atop him, the Red Herald, Charles Montgomery Theophrastus Bombastus von Armageddon aka Charlie Armageddon. They both nod to Max before the Basilisk Herald scampers away on its many legs with Charlie clinging to the top.

Max Kael: I feel cursed just seeing a thing like that.

Reaching into his pocket he retrieves a baggie marked as uber-cocaine and takes a bump. In the background the sounds of screams from the remaining Herald’s drowns out the sound of Max giggling.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

“A vote for Max Kael is a vote for Freedom!”

Her eyes flicker up from her phone, dry, peeling lips pull back from rotten, diseased gums. That voice…

Mina Starr-Kael: … Impossible.

Despite saying the word out loud, it does little to change the fact that Max Kael’s unsettling visage is plastered across her screen.

Mina Starr-Kael: How the fuck did that idiot get someone to back him for any kind of political office.

Her voice is raspy and weak, her skin swallowed and unpleasantly pale. Her body moves in ways that seem antithetical to comfort, sharp, jagged movements drawing her up, out of her chair. An eye patch covers her left eye while a dark, beady eye peers from the depths of her right socket.

Then she sees it.

Or rather, she sees him.

Snark Darkly hovering just over Max’s shoulder. It’s just for a moment, less than a second probably, but Mina recognizes him immediately. The sneer untwists into a corrupt grin, blackened, rotten teeth on full display.

Mina Starr-Kael: Oh… oooh. So. That’s the game… You’ve moved your pawn, we shall move ours… heh-heh.

She lifts her phone to her lips.

Mina Starr-Kael: Call… Sutler Reynolds-Kael.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Deklan Glaive: We’ve just one more matter of business to attend to, Ms. Sinclaire.

The grey haired lawyer looks across the desk at his client, Elenore Sinclaire-Kael, by Wilhelm Kael’s reckoning. She’s occupied herself with several different screens displaying the market shifts of her various financial investments.

Elenore Sinclaire: Yes, Mr. Glaive, what is it then?

Her eyes don’t flicker as she stares forward, Glaive’s presence barely acknowledged.

Deklan Glaive: It seems there was an investment property in Guyana that recently closed due to local government investigations. The property was kept mostly off books, the financial data buried beneath several layers of bureaucratic red tape.

Elenore blinks for the first time, a headache immediately flushing into her skull. With a sigh she turns, bloodshot eyes burning into his steady gaze.

Elenore Sinclaire: Fartharder and Shittemore’s work?

Nodding his head, Deklan extends a folder out toward Elenore.

Deklan Glaive: Their firm’s fingerprints are all over this. And when I dug a little deeper I was able to confirm that the authorization for this Guyana property was signed off by your brother.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Elenore lets out a low, frustrated growl.

Elenore Sinclaire: … that piece of shit, Max Kael.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Snark Darkly presents…

…THE ONE ACTION NEWS TEAM…

…starring…

Kai, Bryan Dawkins’ Baby Momma with TRAVEL

Kirk the Sports Head, formerly the undead head of Lowell Dot Com with SPORTS

The Herald, Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Fatherington covering THE ALMASY

…and Lead Achor…

Mayoral Candidate for his hometown of Arkham, MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL

Pretty aggressive NEWS music plays as the camera quickly focuses on Max Kael in his traditional black three piece suit with a #D6red bowtie. Pastered behind the NEWS WALL behind him are matching, waving US and Arkham flags. A magnificent smile is stretched across his face, those silver teeth glimmering in the bright stage lights. Red lines crackly across parts of Max’s face, the lingering wounds from his match at UltraViolence against Jackson Cooley.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME, welcome to segment one’s beloved WON ACTION NEWS TEAM, I’m Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! Tonight we’re starting off with a real treat! As we all know by now, in the first round of the Almasy I will be facing Johnathan Christoper Hall, a former ally and winner of the 2023 Almasy!

Leaning back in his chair, Max folds his hands in his lap, licking at his dry lips.

Max Kael: Now some might look at the brackets and say that mine could be classified as a MURDER BRACKET. I wouldn’t disagree, friends, but then… I’ve never been one to walk away from a good murder… heh-heh.

Lifting a hand Max gestures toward all the cuts and tears covering his face.

Max Kael: But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to go into this thing unarmed. No, no, I’m not underestimating or taking for granted any of my opponents, especially not JCH. The man used the power of love to defeat Cecilworth Farthington in the last Almasy and road it all the way to the Universal Title.

Leaning forward, Max’s brow furrows in disgust.

Max Kael: With… love. Love.

He spits love between his teeth as though he’d just had a pig vomitted the word down his throat.

Max Kael: … and so tonight I have the architect of that relationship. The focus of Johnathan’s love, the woman that carried him to the Universal Title.

The disgust washes away from his face as that toothy smile grows to dominate his face once again.

Max Kael: Please welcome… VICKIE HALL!

Vicke proudly bursts into the frame, sporting her typical PRETTY PINK© onesie with an adorable little skirt attached to it and Max Kael inspired bear-slippers. See, it’s not so much a bear on the front of the slippers as it is Max’s face morphed into a bear. She’s showing them off because she’s kicking up her feet very high so the cameras, and Max, can see. It’s overly blatant. It’s kinda cringe but Vickie’s hoping Max will be thrilled with them.

Anyway, Vickie takes her place.

Vickie Hall: Wonderful to be here, this is such a divine setup. Now, my understanding is you have questions to ask me? Actually, I have questions to ask you.

Vickie pauses until a coy, Grinch-like smile crosses her face.

Vickie Hall: Can you kill my Amazing Life Partner? Asking, of course, for a friend.

Max stares at the Max-Bear shoes with a look of puzzlement before shaking it off, that practiced, fake grin stretching across his silver toothed maw.

Max Kael: Well, my plan was to kill him or at least maim him so sufficiently that he can’t answer a pinfall count or he just plain submits…

After a moment, Max clicks his tongue and snaps his finger.

Max Kael: …we are talking about Johnathan Christopher Hall, yes?

Vickie shakes her head ‘yes’.

Vickie Hall: Yes, of course. I know I am with Cancy right now, and he is a fine provider, but I have not filed for anything regarding Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

Vickie stops so she can look into the camera.

Vickie Hall: See, I am a confused woman. I loved my Jonathan-Christopher but he hurt me, so very, very much. Surely you can understand that. In fact, I suppose you can, wanting to kill him and all. It’s just… Max… (sigh), I’ve grown so tired of his neediness. His insecurities. And let’s not forget the main reason as to why him and I aren’t currently together, his narcissistic traits, how he showed the entire world my polyamours side, which was my story to tell, NOT his. He aired our laundry out in public. He accused me of adultery! And then, like, he just wants me back? Max, he’s more confusing than the million different personalities you’ve got…

Vickie points to Max’s head.

Vickie Hall: Going on in there.

She takes a moment to “collect” herself from the trauma she’s putting on her shoulders. Max looks at the camera in confusion then back at Vickie.

Vickie Hall: So, yes, we are talking about Jonathan-Christopher, the man you face in two weeks. Don’t even get me started on the PTSD I have with the Almasy. It’s either “lose in the first round” or “win the whole thing”. How am I supposed to cope with bipolar wrestling disorder?

Pause.

Vickie Hall: Anyway, you can go ahead and ask me your questions now.

Max blinks, for certain he blinks, before sinking back into his chair thoughtfully.

Max Kael: Well honestly, I invited you here because I was hoping you could share some useful tid-bits on how to defeat JCH. After all, and I know you didn’t want to dig into it from the Post Time Sexual Deviance syndrome you suffer from but you did manage the man who won the last Almasy, toxic traits and all… so it stands to reason, you know all the soft spots to strike your former lover that isn’t Cancer Jiles.

Max leans forward like a greedy fat kid in a room alone with a chocolate cake. Licking his lips hungrily Max’s fake smile melts away into a Grinchian style grin.

Max Kael: Also what kind of facial products do you use?

Vickie blushes. She first leans back in her chair, smiles and then leans forward. She reaches out and puts her hand on top of Max’s right knee, continuing to smile, showing no fear whatsoever. Max’s smile vanishes as he hisses like a cat confronted with a dog they do not like. Full tooth hiss, if Max had hair covering his entire body, it would have stood up on end. If he had a rattle like a rattlesnake, it would be shaking like Michael J. Fox without his meds.

Vickie Hall: Aww, that’s sweet. Thank you for noticing I’m as cute as a button.

She tilts her head to the right and gives an inquisitive expression.

Vickie Hall: Did you want to eat my face? (Proudly, as if a badge of honor was bestowed upon her) Rumors are swirling that you do. Nothing gets past me, Max.

She lifts her hand off his knee and leans back in her chair. Max eases back into his normal, fake smile once the contact is over. You can see him making a mental note to have his pants destroyed.

Vickie Hall: Because there’s a time and place for that. Trust me, I am always working ten steps ahead. I work a lot of steps ahead, Max. And that’s why you’re right, I am the manager that shot-put my man to the Almasy two years ago. I’m also the manager who helped Cancy defeat Jonathan-Christopher, too. I’ve managed a Universal Champion, a Five-Star Champion, and everything in-between. I’ve befriended a communist, a lunatic and a simp. I’m damn near unstoppable when motivated.

She grins maliciously.

Vickie Hall: I’m Manager of the Year, baby. Always been. Every. Single. Year.

Vickie leans forward again.

Vickie Hall: So yes, Max. I will share with you the tips and tricks to defeat my Amazing Life Partner, because he deserves to be beaten in numero uno round one. He needs to know he is nothing without me and I have not forgiven him. This is a lesson Jonathan-Christopher requires. It’s a humbling. A pummeling. And you’re the current man to do it, because, eh, they say…  circumstances.

Those bushy eyebrows of Vickie’s, they could make any used car salesman jealous.

Vickie Hall: I’ll share all the secrets with you, of course I will. Off camera. Christ, I might even be in your corner if Cancy lets me…

Another grin and wink.

Vickie Hall: And, about my face. In due time, sweetheart. I promise.

A wag of the finger.

Vickie Hall: And I always keep those.

Max looks back toward the camera, his fake smile wavering into mild concern before he clears his throat.

Max Kael: There you have it folks! A private information session with Vickie Hall.

A dry cough leaves his throat.

Max Kael: How exciting.

Both Vickie and Max vanish from the screen as we’re taken to a “Please Stand By” frame.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Where in the World is Kai?

A catchy little ear worm of a jazz tune players as we’re shown various different, unmarked locations from around the world. Some are recognizable, like the Pyramids of Egypt or the Sydney Opera House. Others are random fields, trees and buildings that could be from anywhere in the industrialized world.

Once the song finishes we are shown Kai, ex and baby momma to Dawkin’s son.

Kai: Where you’re dumb Russian foot soldiers or dumb pineapple obsessed Bryan’s, it’s hard to track me down! But I’m back again with another clue as to my where abouts… happy?

Kai’s excited expression turns sour immediately as she appears to be asking someone behind the camera if they were happy with their delivery. A voice mutters from behind the camera but it’s not entirely audible.

Kai: Sure, thanks, I’ll continue.

Taking a deep breath she smiles at the camera once again, her voice pepping up.

Kai: In case you were slow on the draw, my last clue put me on the Continent of North America! If you guessed that, good on you! If you didn’t, you need to study geography. The next clue as to my mysterious whereabouts!

She winks at the camera as we’re taken to a map of North America with all of its nations on display.

Kai: The country I am in has unique laws that allow its citizens to kill people if they break into your hope or you consider them a threat while on your property! That’s right, you can straight gun down an intruder, especially if you feel your life is at risk! Bang! Bang! Bang! Food for thought in case anyone decides to pay me an early visit.

We cut back to Kai who lets out a very fake, very weak giggle before mouthing “Help Me” toward the camera.

Kai: See if you can figure out which country I am in! Till next time!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

We cut back to Max Kael who has moved from his NEWS DESK to a comfortable, high back reading chair next to a fireplace. Only the light of the fireplace illuminates the setting with nothing but darkness where the light fails to touch.

Max Kael: Worms of PRIMe, it’s time to say goodnight but before I go, I want to couch on a few things.

He flashes that silver toothed smile toward the camera while folding his hands in his lap.

Max Kael: I’ve been here for just about three years now and I’ve seen a lot of shit happen. I’ve seen wrestlers come and go, spilled blood, ripped flesh and even flirted with the concept of death on more than one occasion. But the thing that has stood out to me the most, the thing that I’ve experienced first hand… is the betrayal of love.

His smile turns into a somber grimace.

Max Kael: Love has been used, abused and turned in on itself time and time again and yet you mulling spawn continue to sing its praises. Continue to use love as an excuse for your contrite behavior and pathetic reasons for living. They say the most common thing in this world is life… and the next is love.

Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Max continues.

Max Kael: … which makes love truly a devalued product. If it’s everywhere, if it happens spontaneously and without restriction then how can it be truly valuable? Life means nothing to us, that’s why we start endless wars, murder people who are different from us, cause massive extinctions in the pursuit of a few cents off a gallon of gas. Life has no meaning because it’s everywhere… Same with love.

Giggling to himself, Max looks down at his hands.

Max Kael: Now I can’t do anything about life on this world, trust me if I could, there’d be a lot less of you worms out in it… but alas they call that genocide and supposedly that’s a war crime though I haven’t seen anyone put on trial for it recently. No, friends, no I can’t do anything about the rampant growth of life but I can do something about love…

Pushing himself up out of his chair, Max places his right hand over his heart while wearing a cruel smirk.

Max Kael: I swear to DESTROY the love of anyone who stands between me and winning the Almasy Tournament. This starts with you, Jonathan-Christopher Hall. You, JCH, who has abused and been abused by love the most. You, Jonathan-Christopher, who should welcome my reckoning. You who flaunted your love in front of us all and now bears the scars of your hubris! You, Jonathan-Christopher Hall…

The First Victim of Love.

A low, gurgling giggle escapes Max’s lips as we cut to the next segment.

From Kenny Freeman, maybe addressing his enemies, probably addressing his enemies (he’s done a lot of addressing his enemies over time, which means he has a lot of enemies that call him their enemy which is why he feels the need to constantly be addressing his enemies) and definitely not being in a shark cage (that’s Randall Schwartz, that’s his thing, he is the man who goes into the cage of sharks), the scene shifts to ringside. Our camera remains focused on the center of the ring.

Without warning, without The Dropkick Murphy’s paying his arrival, Doozer suddenly appears dead center in the ring. A trick of the eye? Or did he simply phase in? I don’t know. Why are you asking me? Do you think I’m untouchable? Well I am and I’m forcing you to feel me.

Vince Howard: The following is a first round contest in the 2025 Seymour Almasy Memorial Invitational Tournament. It is scheduled for one fall and has a NOOOOOOO time limit…introducing first, standing six feet three inches and weighing in at two-hundred seventy-three pounds, he is The Old Bull…DOOOOOZEEER!!!

Richard Parker: Well at least he doesn’t have a shock collar around his neck.

Nick Stuart: With what one can imagine being a somber mood amongst the eGG Bandits–

Richard Parker: –no. No we’re not doing that. I make mention of this because it means that we are not going to be ‘graced’ with the presence of that tool, that absolute crumb bum loser PIECE OF GARBAGE Cancer Jiles–

Nick Stuart: …in any event, Doozer continues his return to active PRIME competition here tonight, and does so in the 2025 Seymour Almasy Memorial Invitational. This will be The Boston Brawler’s second appearance in an Almasy Invitational, having appeared in the inaugural iteration in 2022 where he lost in rather unceremonious fashion to former Dual Halo winner and historic PRIME top contender Garbage Bag Johnny–

Richard Parker: –this was before his TORRID love affair with Muriel Puddings, and I just so happened to vomit in my own mouth after saying this–

Nick Stuart: –but that is his past. The opportunity before him is great. Not just in moving on in professional wrestling’s most prestigious singles tournament…but because he is facing off with one of PRIME’s most improved competitors…

After Vince Howard’s introduction, “Burning Hearts” by Survivor hits, with Scott Hunter slowly making his way to ringside while adjusting his wrist tape. For a man who is famously… let’s be generous and say “spacey”… he is surprisingly focused for tonight.

Vince Howard: His opponent… from Miami, Florida… he weighs in tonight at two hundred and forty-five pounds…representating Vae Victus… SCOTTTTTT HUNNNNNTERRRRRRRRR!!!!

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter has been red hot in 2025, and that’s not a simple platitude. He took former Universal Champion Ivan Stanislav to the very limit in a match fresh off The Russian Bear looking to make a statement to get back on track. Ben Lynch and Rose have felt the full brunt of his forward momentum. And…indeed, upon seeing the draw of this tournament, Hunter’s name has made frequent appearances making some serious headway with a deep run…

Richard Parker: His head is empty. You sure filling it up with more hot air is going to help with the general aspects of focus?

Nick Stuart: Maybe it was all a ruse.

Richard Parker: And maybe, this whole thing is going to turn into a pumpkin. After all, we’re all giving the kid A LOT of credit for a match he didn’t win. He DREW with Stanislav. And it’s cute that people put so much stock in moral victories. You want to show the world it’s more than that? Try making that run in this tournament. Make it to round three. Because if you do, Scott Hunter? Because of the quadrant you find yourself in? You very well might be staring down the barrel of The Russian Bear once more…

Nick Stuart: An Event Horizon might BE on the Horizon for that. And if not? Then it could be a member of The Red Army who just picked up the biggest win in their entire career with Kenny Freeman. Lots of possibilities for sure…but The Old Bull has more than enough reason to put an end to all such projections.

Hunter reaches the ring and takes the stairs to the ring apron before entering the ring. There, he raises his hands in the air for the fans to cheer him. Soon after, official Ashley Barlow makes sure to do the requisite check for illegal objects, directing the two to opposite corners upon completion of such. A signal to Hunter, then to Doozer. Then, a gesture for the bell.

DING DING

Out of the gate, the two begin circling each other, anticipatory energy filtering through their arms as this contest is officially underway. Doozer gives off a few meaty slaps to his own chest as Hunter’s fingers scratch at his own wrist tape. Hunter appears to be lighter on the feet, with Doozer almost giving up his back in the pursuit. Suddenly, the Vae Victis member charges in, having cut off two thirds of the ring from The Old Bull.

This is not a toro situation, however, as Doozer has planted his heels, and launches into the approaching Hunter with his arms, latching him in a tight side headlock. The over thirty pound weight advantage is made all the more stark given The Boston Brawler’s vascularity, indicating an odd agelessness or perhaps the gift of wonderful genes. The Bandit clasps his fingers together in an s grip, leveraging brute strength and forcing Hunter to a knee. Another aggressive jerk causes Hunter to struggle outward, his hands reaching and flailing, a fist finding its way into Doozer’s kidney.

The blow might as well be glancing, however. The Old Bull torques the side headlock even further, with Scott Hunter seeming powerless to the point of both knees landing on the canvas. Wild hands reach out toward The Bandit’s head in instinct, Barlow making sure to keep an eye for Hunter as much as pulling on Doozer’s hair. Another blow to the kidney, this time from a forearm smash. Doozer snerks.

Nick Stuart: Raw power on display here.

Richard Parker: Not just raw power, but some intelligent ring generalship from the veteran. If you have that size advantage, using it in such a way as to wear someone down, to neutralize any kind of explosion, that’s big. And while Hunter is definitely fit and in shape, he’s not shown us in all his time that he has the fast twitch muscle like some of our world class athletes. Now maybe he DOES have that. But if he does, right now would be a GREAT time to use it.

For what it is worth, the struggle is real. Simple blows are not enough to rock The Old Bull from his grip. Even with sweat starting to pour, the s grip isn’t budging, and neither is the snug hold held in place. Hunter reaches now, not toward Doozer, but to the crowd. A shake. Wrestling as wrestling gets. The Minneapolis fans start clapping and cheering for Hunter, trying to will him on. Not egg him on. Eggs are the opponent’s thing. Hunter’s fist balls up and the shaking, the vibrations, they grow. A knee up. The pitch is only increasing in decibel level. Doozer tries to shut this down instantly with another twist and torque, and for a moment, he achieves his goal, but just as quickly, Scott rockets back up to one knee. Then, that knee lifts from the canvas.

Leverage is still a thing. Doozer is still in the dominant position. But the shot fired into his kidney from a stiff Scott Hunter forearm carries quite a bit more sting than it did mere moments before. The one that follows is even worse. The grimace of The Old Bull’s face says it all. His muscles are turning ruddy, flush. Oxygen burning through. The grip remains though, despite the struggle.

Scott Hunter isn’t going to be able to smash his way out of this. His hands grip around the belt of Doozer’s jorts. The ring rattles and shakes as Hunter plants his heels and balls into the canvas, digging in for grip as though the soles of his wrestling boots were cleats or spikes.

Richard Parker spoke of quick twitch muscle and whether Scott Hunter had it or not. Well, he should have the answer to his question after Hunter lifts Doozer up and over, dropping him HARD to the mat with a back drop that breaks the grip and causes the two to shoot away from each other upon collision with the canvas.

The fans in Minneapolis roar for Hunter, watching as the mulleted former doofus struggles to get back to his feet before The Old Bull. He manages it, caroming off the ropes, trying to hit Doozer with a shoulder block. Unfortunately for Scott, the blow doesn’t take The Boston Brawler off his feet, but rather, only takes him back a few steps, into the ring ropes. Never the matter; Hunter once again tries and makes a charge, looking to land a heavy blow.  Doozer ducks, back body dropping Hunter upon arrival.

Presumably to the outside mats.

Presumably.

Because rather than that, Scott Hunter lands on his feet on the ring apron. The Old Bull lazily turns, and the moment he does, he finds himself bell clapped across the ears. Disorientation. Hunter could try and land a blow. Something quick. Instead, reaching between the middle and top rope, his hands latch onto the right leg of Doozer, yanking the ankle in close. Same with the rest of the leg.

Doozer doesn’t realize it until it is too late.

Dragon screw leg whip into the middle rope.

There isn’t some kind of loud auditory pop, but rather, the immense strain from the move does its visceral damage with the flood of synovial fluid filling the joint. Doozer wretches in pain, grabbing at his kneecap, trying to move his knee brace away and let the area BREATHE. It’s like an inferno, rushing through his nerves, refusing to let go. He remains on the canvas, fingers trying to reach and touch the wounded joint.

Hunter refuses to give him quarter, grabbing hold of the leg and ankle, wedging it between his own legs and dropping to the canvas in a vicious and targeted annihilation tactic towards The Old Bull’s knee.

The Vae Victis representative keeps the pressure up, yanking Doozer into the center of the ring, far away from the sanctuary of the ring ropes. It’s clear what he wants to do; figure four leg lock. Doozer, however, draws his legs to his chest and uses his power to buck Scott Hunter away.

A reprieve.

Rather, it’s not.

The knee is so shockingly compromised that just this amount of burst is enough to cause The Old Bull to writhe in agony. His fists pound the canvas, his eyes squeezing shut. With forearms and elbow digging in to the canvas, he tries, desperately, to claw himself up back to his feet. Scott Hunter, though, is there to cut the struggle off, grabbing hold of the ankle, and the leg, and with a quick flourish, the figure four leg lock is in place, dead center in the ring.

Doozer’s fingertips claw into his own scalp. He struggles for a moment. There’s no way out of this. His body seizes, and his hand taps the canvas in submission.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this contest, and moving on in the 2025 Seymour Almasy Memorial Invitational…SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTT! HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNTER!

Nick Stuart: And just like that, the momentum continues, not just for Vae Victis, but for Scott Hunter!

Richard Parker: There was a flash of viciousness shown by the former goober. He keeps showing that? Maybe he is going to do some serious damage in this tournament.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon and Kenny Freeman have their own bout coming up shortly, and while they’re surely focused on one another, I would be remiss if I didn’t make it clear, either one of those men better have their head on a swivel…because Scott Hunter…is coming for one of them in the Almasy.

Doozer grabs at his leg and knee after Scott Hunter releases his hold. Barlow lifts Hunter’s arm up in victory, and the fans in Minneapolis give the Vae Victis representative and VVing Man a strong ovation.

No need to linger on.

ReVival marches on.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back, fans! Next up, we’ve got a very special treat, with a guest appearance by…oh. Richard, you might want to cover your ears.

Richard Parker: Why?

Nick Stuart: Because it’s about to get really loud in here…

Oh, Nicky. That’s an understatement.

Because a certain song is about to start playing…and…well.

There’s a lot of songs that only work for specific people. There’s maybe one wrestler in a thousand that can walk out to Jefferson Starship or “Screamin’” Jay Hawkins or I Don’t Know How But They Found Me.

Conversely, there are songs that just work. After maybe three notes, everybody in the world knows what it is. A young wrestler hears those, and thinks, “Yes! This is perfect!”

Problem is, every wrestler who hears it, thinks that.

Because of that, a song, the perfect entrance theme…becomes meaningless. Because when it plays, it could be any one of a thousand wrestlers walking through that curtain.

….

…and yet.

In those most rare of occasions, one wrestler–or in this case, a pair of wrestlers–take the theme that is perfect for literally anyone, and make it theirs. Through years of unprecedented worldwide success, they establish a connection so thorough that nobody else can claim it again.

If you’re in the city where those guys made their bones, it doesn’t even matter if they’ve been out of the game for ten years. After maybe three notes, everyone in that audience knows what it means.

That’s what happens here. You hear the drum kick, and a couple of notes from the guitar. You know what this is.

You know what this means.

The band?

Beastie Boys.

The song?

“Sabotage.”

The arena?

Loses. Their. Fucking. Minds.

RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

Richard Parker: JESUS H. FROG ON A POGO STICK!

Nick Stuart: Warned you.

While Richard covers his ears, two men step out from behind the curtain…and they could not look any more different. One is dressed very casually–cargo shorts, red Chucks, and a slightly oversized Minnesota Frost jersey. His short blonde hair sticks out in random directions; either he just woke up, or has a personal ban on combs. It’s giving “extra in a Kevin Smith film but doesn’t act like one.” He stands off to one side of the platform, but bounces on his heels as he waves to the fans. Dude might be in his mid-40s now, but he’s still very much eight years old.

The other presents himself as a much more serious goose. Not a strand of his brown hair out of place. Dress slacks above sensible shoes; you can’t see his socks but it’s a safe bet they don’t have Spider-Man on them. Simple burgundy dress shirt with a striped gray tie. Sensible dress, slightly reserved smile…he definitely doesn’t look like someone who filled a former referee’s office with butterscotch pudding.

These two obviously need no introduction to the paying audience…but the PRIME fan base at large might need a little help. Fortunately, Vince Howard has your back.

Vince Howard: Please welcome at this time, our special guests! The high-flyin’est, death-defyin’est, chicken-pot-pie-in’est tag team in wrestling history…

Probably the most ridiculous call Vince has made since “combined height” was a thing.

Anyway. He’s got three more words to say, and he says ‘em…but not loud enough, even with a microphone.

Fortunately, the audience has his back.

CRASH!

AND!

BURN!

RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

By now, the legends are down the ramp and walking around the ringside area. Charles Beckett and David McBride are all smiles as they shake hands with the fans at ringside.

Nick Stuart: A bit of a history lesson for our fans; Crash & Burn never competed in PRIME but they’re still legends of tag team wrestling. One of the most decorated teams in history; they’ve won titles in North America, Europe, and Japan. They spent a lot of their early career here in Minnesota, which launched them into stardom…and helped them become one of the longest-reigning World Tag Team Champions in National Wrestling Council history.

Richard Parker: Not the longest?

Nick Stuart: No, that record belongs to Sound & Fury, who–

David suddenly sneers, and glares in Nick’s direction. There’s no way he can hear what Nick is saying. But he can feel it.

Nick Stuart: Anyway. Even after retiring in 2015, they’ve stayed connected to the sport–McBride is a sought-after freelance trainer, while Charles is one of the founders of the Milo Flynn Cup, held every year right here in the Twin Cities!

The erstwhile Innovators of Tag Team Offense finally stop their meet and greet and get down to business, climbing the steps and entering the ring. David asks for a microphone, which Mr. Howard graciously provides. Charles does not; he has his own. It’s got Bluey on it, and doubles as a bubble machine.

David McBride: WHAT’S GOOD, MINNEAPOLIS?!

RRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Charles Beckett: Waffles! Waffles are good.

You may ask: wait, how is he able to connect to the sound system with an unplugged toy microphone?

And we may answer: don’t question, just accept.

David McBride: We’re he–Charles. Don’t start.

Richard Parker: Oh, God. These guys are dipshits, aren’t they?

Nick Stuart: The dipshittiest.

David McBride: We are so excited to be here tonight. Man, I can’t even put it into words.

Richard Parker: So shut up.

David McBride: To be here tonight, in the city that made us…as special guests of the biggest wrestling promotion in the world…in front of the BEST FANS IN THE WORLD…

RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

David McBride: …to talk about an event that’s very special to us. One that’s coming up in just a couple of months…

Of course they know what it is, ‘cause they start chanting the name.

MI-LO FLYNN!

MI-LO FLYNN!

MI-LO FLYNN!

Charles Beckett: D*ng right!

Richard Parker: Wait, we’re censoring “dang” now?

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that was us.

Charles Beckett: The Milo Flynn Cup means so much to us. It’s a celebration of tag team wrestling…but more important than that, it’s a tribute to a great wrestler and a better friend.

David McBride: We never would have been half as successful in Minnesota without teams like the Gutterpunks hot on our heels, pushing us all the time. But I think I speak for Charlie when I say we’d trade it all just to have him back.

Charles Beckett: H*ck yeah, we would.

A round of applause for the Raging Hobo. Yes, he called himself that.

Charles Beckett: That’s why I joined up with the Flynn Cup committee in the first place. ‘Cause Milo deserves to be remembered, and deserves to be celebrated…and what better way to do that than by bringing sixteen tag teams into one building for the weekend and watching them beat the cr*p out of each other?

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

David McBride: This year, ol’ Charlie asked me to be part of the selection committee…and I gotta say, that is a tough job. We’ve got until the end of July to make our picks, but there are so many good teams out there, there’s no way. Not unless Charles and I do what we do best.

Charles Beckett: Stupid, chaotic nonsense!

David McBride: Yes. No!

He thinks for a second.

David McBride: …yes.

Charles Beckett: That’s why we sent out an invite to everyone who applied. “Come join us in Minneapolis and show us what you’re made of,” we said. And then we told them where we’d be. And…we may or may not have left a door or two unlocked.

Nick Stuart: Oh no.This is going to be the Sammy Broadway incident all over again.

Richard Parker: These two are gonna get owled to death and I don’t feel the least bit sorry for them.

Charles activates the bubble machine to celebrate the team’s horrible decision and impending strigiform-related doom.

Yes, I looked it up.

David McBride: So, we’ve got a bunch of tag teams who are fighting for the same opportunities, and brought them together. Only one thing left to say…Charles, would you do the honors?

Charles Beckett: Thank you, sir.

He clears his throat, then in his most sincere voice, says…

Charles Beckett: “What could possibly go wrong?”

The answer is immediate, and comes in the form of “Cigarette Daydreams” by Cage the Elephant.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Daniel Green and Hugo Vale stagger through the curtain, arms thrown around each other, like they do. Obnoxiously singing along with their entrance theme, like they do.

Nick Stuart: Of all the teams this could have been, I am…actually not surprised that it’s the Green Vale Gang.

Richard Parker: It’s ridiculous that they even have to wait for an official selection! They should have been accepted the moment they applied, if not sooner!

Naturally, Hugo already has a microphone. Because when you’re actually important, you don’t have to ask for things or bring them yourself. The people who recognize their betters will just hand them over.

Hugo Vale: Hmm. You know, it’s odd. First, Cecilworth Farthington has a minotaur, and now, there are two walking, talking dinosaur fossils standing in the ring. A bizarre place, this PRIME.

The pair of them saunter toward the ring. Definitely a saunter. Not a mosey; that’s for cowboys.

Hugo Vale: BUT, might I ask, what gives you two old fuckers the audacity — the gall — to ask us to prove ourselves? What have you done to earn that inflated sense of self? Hmm? Anything in my lifetime? Of course, I mean besides becoming a pair of wash-out has-beens, trying to keep your name alive — along with your dead friend’s, of course.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The crowd is hot at that one…and so is David McBride. He’s definitely the “Burn” half of the team, after all.

Hugo, meanwhile, winks at David, flips the mic nonchalantly to Daniel, who snatches it out of the air like a bird.

Daniel Green: But if it’s “spectacle” you’re after, well…we’ll waltz right into your precious, little tournament, destroy everyone who crosses our path to greatness, and not even break a sweat until the after-party. But before we do that…

Hmm. They’re sauntering awfully close to the ring right now…

Daniel Green: We’ll truly pave this lane to greatness we’re creating…by hospitalizing a couple of washed-up, old fools — oh look Huey, two are already in the ring.

They nonchalantly climb up on the apron and lean over the top rope. Their grins turn sinister as they stare down the living legends.

Hugo Vale: I doubt it will take very long. Danny Boy will still have time to clean the old-man stink off his body before he destroys the other elderly wash-out we have to deal with tonight.

That’s when the Green Vale Gang enter the ring, getting right in Crash & Burn’s faces. To their credit, the elder statesmen don’t back down at all. David, because he’s ready, even eager, for a fight. Charles, because he probably doesn’t think anything bad will happen.

David McBride: Go for it, you little shit. We may have been out of the game for a while, but we can still handle you. Right, Charlie?

Charles Beckett: Nah, I’m good.

…what?

David McBride: What?

Daniel Green, Hugo Vale: What?

Charles Beckett: I haven’t wrestled in ten years, my dude. Do you know how many training montages I’d have to do to get back into fighting shape? Besides, we’ve got family photos on Monday. If I went into those looking all beat up, my wife would be so upset. Not worth it. Sorry.

Hugo Vale: You talk about this like you have a choice. Who’s going to stop us from just…beating the shit out of you?

Oh, Hugo. Have you learned nothing?

A surging pulse of driving rhythm creeps throughout the arena, the backlay rising in tenor, until the ambiance of synthwave power and pipe organ crests. Crash and Burn were bedrocks of tag team wrestling in Minneapolis, and their lasting impact is found within their insatiable appetite and knowledge for tag team wrestling. Their awareness of the style makes the thundering reaction on what encroaches make total sense; it also has to do with the fact that one of the underworld’s most beloved teams is making their way to the ring without a second of hesitation.

“Horror Show” by Battlejuice.

Bex Savage.

Angel Quinley.

The motherf*dging NEW WORLD TRASH are here!

RRRAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Yes, we are getting the censor carryover. This happens when you’re part of the fraternity. Or sorority. You know how you earn membership? You win the fl*pping Flynn Cup! 2022. All rise and hail the seraphims of carnage.

Nick Stuart: The New World Trash are here! Long rumored and long thought of as being locked to PRIME contracts after their sudden rise in 2022, we’ve seen these two before, but not like this! They look ready and rearing to go for a fight!

Street clothes work. Black jeans, high tops. The flashing assault of neon blues and greens with a cut through of pink makes the splash of color across their white tanks all the more stark. These are not special Last Ride shirts, you can wear them in public and not feel embarrassment. They’re actually kind of nifty. They have a cute raccoon and possum girl, and they are smoking joints, and there’s a bunch of malt liquor bottles and katanas and the Seattle Space Needle and spray paint…

They’re busy, alright?

Just as busy as the duo is as they charge straight for the turnbuckles, climbing up to maximize the damage and spectacle. Green and Vale steel themselves for the oncoming violence. Beckett and McBride…are caught in the middle. What to do?

Let’s consult the checklist.

Step One: Do something stupid. Check.

Step Two: Allow it to spiral out of control. Check.

Step Three?

Duck.

WHAM!

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: The New World Trash just flattened the Green Vale Gang with tandem crossbodies! Crash & Burn barely got out of the way!

While the old-timers slide out of the ring–remarkably spry for dudes in their mid to late 40s–the Green Vale Gang and New World Trash battle for control. Daniel quickly gets over the initial surprise and starts laying shots into Bex’s ribs. Hugo covers up to block Angel’s punches, then thumbs her in the eye.

Nick Stuart: The Trash and the Gang are going at it tooth and nail, and this is already way out of hand?

Charles Beckett: Oh, this is nothing. Just wait.

Richard Parker: Gah! Where did you come from?

David McBride: The ring. Were you not watching?

So the two-man booth has now become a four-man, as David McBride has found a headset. Charles is still using the Bluey mic, only now it’s set for broadcast. We don’t know how. Or why.

Nick Stuart: What do you mean “just wait?” Is someone else going to–OH MY GOD!

A spotlight shines in the upper reaches of the stands, looking for two guys who definitely didn’t buy tickets. Before long it finds them.

Leo Burnett and Zack Daymon.

The Rain City Ronin.

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!

…say the fans who are excited for cross-promotional opportunities.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

…say the fans who are PRIME loyalists.

The Ronin take no notice of either camp as they charge down the stairs.

Nick Stuart: The DEFIANCE Tag Team Champions are here! And they’re about to get involved in this insanity!

Charles Beckett: Oh, we’re not at insanity yet. This is just lunacy. Madness, tops.

David McBride: Yeah. Wait until the Sideshow comes out. Then we’re at insanity.

The Ronin hop over the guardrail, ready to storm the ring…but they get cut off. Not by the Trash. Not by the Gang.

By the Lads.

Nick Stuart: BENJAMIN AND DENNIS COLTON! They’re mixing it up with the Rain City Ronin now!

Richard Parker: I bet none of these clowns have security clearance! Arrest them all for trespassing!

Clearly, Richard wants some order restored. What he gets instead…

SUDDENLY!

…are these idiots.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

Nick Stuart: The Intruders!

Richard Parker: Who invited them?

David McBride: Nobody, Richard. That’s kinda their whole deal.

The Intruders stomp their way down the ramp, ready to unleash the dumbest form of hell imaginable. But they won’t make it, because one of them (Intruder #2, I think) gets knocked off the ramp by a newspaper thrown at fastball velocity.

WHAP!

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

The surviving Intruder turns and sees a man barreling down the ramp on a bicycle. He’s dressed like it’s the 1920s, complete with flatcap, and has a canvas bag draped over his shoulder. He rings the bell of his bicycle–

“DING, DING!”

–and grabs another paper out of his bag. He chucks it at Intruder #1 with alarming accuracy, hitting him right in the…

“DING, DING!”

…yeah, pretty much.

Nick Stuart: STRONG ANTONIO THE PAPERBOY! And right behind him is his brother, Dane Bixby!

As Bixby Times charge into the fray, the fight between the four other teams is getting wild. Zack Daymon hits Bex Savage. Angel Quinley hits Dennis Colton. Daniel Green hits Leo Burnett. Hugo Vale and Benny Colton go to hit each other, but…stop?

And now they’re looking at each other, as if to say… “How you doin’?”

Then they both get flattened; Hugo by a shoulder block from Dennis, Benny by an elbow from Savage.

Three more people step through the curtain: a hulking brute with tattoos covering every inch of his body, a woman with scaly green skin and a distressingly long tongue. A tall, slender man with jet black hair, a handlebar mustache, a red-and-white striped shirt, a boater hat, and a hooked cane. Somehow, he’s the most upsetting one.

Richard Parker: Who the hell are these guys?

Charles Beckett: That’s the Sideshow! Now it’s insanity!

Richard Parker: And why haven’t we gotten some kind of EAS warning about you two jackasses?!

David McBride: Charles lives here, buddy. It never turns off.

Charles Beckett: There’s not a single store in town that will sell me a watermelon.

But they’re not the end of it. The Robber Barons. Route 666. Pork ‘n Beans. The Soldiers of Fortune. The New East Side Angels. Liv & Di. The Crew. Faces that will probably never show up in PRIME, but most are old favorites in the Flynn.

It’s utter chaos now, with bodies filling the ring and fists flying. Also a bicycle.

CLANG!

That was Dane Bixby who threw it, taking out a pirate and a mine. I don’t even know when the Mime Syndicate showed up.

And then…a whole lot of Enemigos.

Richard Parker: It’s about damn time.

David McBride: We should go too, partner. Don’t want to be around when Dametreyus comes out.

Nick Stuart: …Do I even want to know?

David McBride: We accidentally found his car in the parking lot, and Charlie here…well, he did what he does.

Charles Beckett: Look, I know the rules. You see a Jeep, you put a duck on it.

David McBride: A RUBBER duck, Charles!

Charles Beckett: You work with the tools you have.

David McBride: WHY DID YOU HAVE A LIVE DUCK?

Oh look, there’s a very annoyed head of security.

Charles Beckett: Thanks for having us, guys! Let’s do this again!

Richard Parker: For the love of God, let’s not.

Oh look, Charles and David are escaping in the confusion.

It’s pretty easy; there’s a LOT of confusion. The Green Vale Gang have extricated themselves from the situation, but the other teams are either wailing on each other or getting mobbed by security.

This is gonna take a minute.

Nick Stuart: Fans, that was…I don’t know what the hell that was. Let’s just move on.

Yes, let’s.

We’re backstage, amidst the hustle and bustle of yet another busy ReVival. A black-gloved hand raps on the foreboding Steel Door O’Doom. Three knocks. Measured. Not polite.

The door, eventually, creaks open.

Lindsay Troy appears in the doorway. She looks up, crosses her arms, and lifts an eyebrow.

Lindsay Troy: Think you’re in the wrong place for a motorcycle rally, my guy.

The camera pulls back.

He’s huge. Built like a riot and dressed like he’s ready to start one — black denim shirt, sleeves rolled, fingerless gloves, jeans tucked into scuffed motorcycle boots. Silent. Stone-faced.

Lindsay eyes him, calculating.

A voice drifts out from behind the brute — crisp, calm, and unmistakably refined.

(O.S.): Miss Troy. I do hope you’ll pardon the intrusion.

The brute steps aside.

And there he is.

Charles de Lacy, in the flesh. The ringside crowd watching the feed stirs — the former HOTv Champion has arrived.

Charles de Lacy: A gentleman announces himself… even in surroundings such as these.

Lindsay Troy: Ah ha.

Another look directed at the Human Boulder.

Lindsay Troy: I guess this means you want to chit chat.

The Queen pushes the door open and disappears inside. de Lacy and his subordinate follow, and stop in front of her desk. de Lacy stands like he owns the room; if he’s thrown off by the throne of belts that serves as Troy’s desk chair, he doesn’t show it. Mickey looks like he’s casing the place.

Lindsay Troy: Mister de Lacy – it is Mister, isn’t it? The “gentlemen” here are few and far between, and generally speaking, when you show up to my office uninvited, it’s a real quick way to find yourself bounced out of the building. Best case scenario.

Mickey shifts. Eyes narrow.

Charles de Lacy (lifting his palm to Mickey’s chest): Quite. A touch more direct than I’m accustomed to, but… refreshing.

Lindsay Troy: Buddy, you and I both worked for Leecifer. Don’t tell me you’re not used to direct when the man had a ballpoint pen for a middle finger.

de Lacy offers a small, tight smile.

Charles de Lacy: Touché. However, Miss Troy, with High Octane Wrestling now shuttered, I find myself — through no fault of my own — without a home.  And I thought… what better time than now to explore new opportunities?

He glances around the office, faintly amused. Then back to her, all poised charm.

Charles de Lacy: Assuming, of course, you can find room for me.

Lindsay leans back, studying de Lacy with a smirk.

Lindsay Troy: You’re what—fifty?

Charles de Lacy: Forty-seven.

Lindsay Troy: So another one for PRIME’s AARP softball team. And if you don’t know, I have a younger version of you… (points first to de Lacy, then to Mickey) …and you here already, and I like Cecilworth and Hank way better. So tell me why I should offer you both a roster spot when you’ve been out of the game awhile and haven’t exactly endeared yourselves to me?

de Lacy doesn’t flinch, but something in his jaw tightens.

Charles de Lacy: Experience has its uses, Miss Troy. Timing, too. You don’t forget how to hurt someone just because the calendar turns.

Lindsay Troy: If that’s supposed to impress me, you’d better keep trying.

Charles de Lacy: No, Miss Troy. Only meant to remind you—some things get sharper with age.

He forces another smile.

Charles de Lacy: All I’m asking for is an opportunity. The rest, I’ll earn.

A beat. Lindsay stares him down.

Lindsay Troy: I’ll think about it.

de Lacy nods.

Charles de Lacy: That’s all I ask.

He turns. Mickey follows. The door shuts with a dull thud.

ReVival goes elsewhere.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Los Angeles, California! Weighing in at 160lbs…he is one half of the MASTERS OF THE MOSCOWVERSE! KENNYYYYYYY FREEEEEEMAAAAAAN!!

The crowd BOOOOOOS as Micah Ray’s trap remix of the Soviet National Anthem blares throughout the arena. Kenny doesn’t seem to care.  He bounces headfirst into the ring and takes his position in his corner.

Kenny’s theme fades and distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.

Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know.

Vince Howard: AND HIS OPPONENT, FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!

Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.

Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

He hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

DING DING

The two men circle each other before charging in for a lock-up. But Kenny feints! Using his superior speed, he sidesteps Hanlon and throws him off balance. A drop toe hold from Freeman puts the mustache on the mat. Hanlon clutches his face in pain and checks for blood. Wasting no time, Kenny executes a beautiful standing moonsault onto Hanlon’s back. The Event Horizon clutches his back in agony.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon getting a rude wake-up call from Freeman. If he thought this cruiserweight would go down easily, he’s in for a rough night.

An aggressive Freeman throws a stomps onto Hanlon’s head before diving an elbow into his – NO! Hanlon rolls out of the way, and Freeman hits his funny bone in a way that only makes his opponent laugh.

Hanlon smacks his elbow and delivers his own elbow drop to the gut of the flailing Freeman. As Kenny absorbs the blow, the Event Horizon kisses a bicep, picks Kenny up by the hair, and stuns him with a single knee facebreaker. He lifts a stunned Kenny into a fireman’s carry. But instead of slamming him, Hanlon raises Freeman and parades him around the ring like a tribute about to be sacrificed.

BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nick Stuart: I don’t see why all this showing off is necessary.

Richard Parker: That’s ‘cause you’ve never had anything to show, Nick. Certainly nothing that rivals the strength and stature of the ‘stache.

Nick Stuart: I want to know what he’s got planned here, and unfortunately, Freeman’s about to – WAIT!

While Hanlon was parading, Freeman was returning to life. With a flurry of tiny kicks, he loosens Hanlon’s grip and jumps back down to the mat, taking Hanlon’s head with him in a devastating double knee facebuster.

Hayes’s head bounces off knees like a football, and Kenny is there to kick the winning basket or whatever. Freeman whips off the ropes and nails Hayes with a very shiny wizard that hits with a sickening THWACK heard round the arena.

Nick Stuart: Right on target! Hanlon may be out cold!

Kenny quickly hooks the leg for a

1!

2!

Nick Stuart: KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: You’re not gonna take out a former Universal Champion with a shining wizard!

Nick Stuart: True enough. But if Hanlon doesn’t find a way to counter Kenny’s speed, he’s gonna end up the Event NO-rizon.

Richard: You proud of that one, Nicky?

Nick Stuart: …No.

You can’t keep a good man down, but that doesn’t stop Kenny from trying. As soon as Hayes kicks out, Freeman hits the ropes again and nails a second rope crossbody on the recovering Hanlon. But NO! Hanlon catches the Freeman and slams him down with authority! Kenny’s breath is knocked clean out of him, but Hayes doesn’t let go. He lifts him up again, folds Kenny’s leg, and hits a kneebreaker that sends the younger man reeling. But he doesn’t there; that kneecap’s gotta be good and dead. He doesn’t let go and dragon screws Freeman’s hurt knee right into the ground. The crowd collectively OHs and clutches their kneecaps in terror. Does Kenny even have a kneecap on that leg anymore? It’s unclear, but Kenny is writhing on the ground, clutching his compromised knee in agony.

Nick Stuart: Take notes, kids. That’s how you ground a flyer.

Hayes once again flexes for the crowd who shower him with boos.

Richard Parker: Don’t listen to them! They hate you because you’re beautiful!

Hanlon winks and nods, flashing a million-dollar smile before turning back to his kneecapped opponent. SMACK.

Nick Stuart: Ouch! Hanlon walked right into that dropkick.

Freeman screams as his hurt knee hits the ground, but his dropkick did its job. Hayes is staggered enough for Kenny to jump to the first rope and hit a FLYING DDT on the former Intense Champion!! Hanlon shoots straight back up from the DDT, no life in his eyes. He puts up a single finger like he’s about to complain to the manager, then falls forward, out cold.

Hayes is down, but Freeman knows he’s not out. Kenny leans on the ropes, then starts limping towards the turnbuckle. It’s now or never. He gets to the corner and starts an agonizing climb. He winces with every step, but perseveres.  Getting to the top takes much longer than usual, but Hanlon is still looks dazed on his back.

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman on the top rope! Is he gonna jump from there??

No, unfortunately, he isn’t. Hanlon regains himself just in time to pop back up and hit the ropes. Kenny loses his balance and smacks his tailbone into the turnbuckle. A now furious Hayes climbs to the second rope to meet Kenny face to face, belly to belly.

Richard Parker: A belly-to-belly from the top rope will turn that kid to dust.

Nick Stuart: I think this may be over for Freeman.

Yeah, that boy’s about to be suplexed from the top rope. Hayes can smell victory, but unfortunately, he can also feel punches. Freeman digs up the last of his energy and channels it into a flurry of strikes. Hayes hits back, but Freeman gets the upper hand.

FREEMAN PUSHES HAYES FROM THE TOP!!! Hayes lands with dull thud. Will Kenny be able to capitalize…HE DOES. TOP ROPE MOONSAULT ON HANLON!

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe this! Hanlon is done!

Kenny lands clean but it’s clear the impact has done a number on his knee. He braces through the pain and makes the cover on Hanlon:

ONE!

TWO!

THR-KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: Not so fast, Nick!

Nick Stuart: A last-minute kickout. Kenny looks devastated. I don’t know how much he has left with that damaged knee. What does he do now?

An exhausted Kenny hits the ropes and nails a desperate leg drop with his good knee.

Nick Stuart: Follow the Freeman! But no time to dance!

Richard Parker: More like no kneesto dance.

He follows up by grabbing Hayes arm and setting up for the FREEMAN SPECIAL. He twists Hanlon’s arm and reaches for his leg! But no! Hayes lands a perfectly aimed strike on Kenny’s knee. He collapses, and the Event Horizon is free.

Kenny staggers; he’s trying to recover. Then from OUTTA NOWHERE:

Richard Parker: Flash Point! Hayes just flattened Freeman with the sit-out jawbreaker!

Hayes hooks the leg for the cover:

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEE!!!!!

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner by pinfall, The Event Horizon, HAYES HAAAAAANLOOOON!!!

A exhausted Hayes Hanlon raises both arms to a wave of BOOOs from the crowd; though you could never tell they were boos from the way the Event Horizon soaks up the attention.

Nick Stuart: A big win for Home Run Hayes. Kenny gave everything he had and almost had him, but Hayes was able to exploit a weak point at a crucial mom-

Richard Parker: Blah blah blah. There’s a masterpiece in the ring, Nick. Show some respect.

Hanlon takes his time posing and celebrating to the delight of Rich Parker and to the fans who are just booing him because he’s beautiful.

We move on.

Backstage.

Steve Lemieux looks miserable. There are probably a number of reasons for this, so let’s list a few!

To start, he’s been getting absolutely tooled on ever since joining the PRIME roster, because he does not understand how professional wrestling works. Sure, he might have tried to “rehearse” with a few people here and there, but ultimately he ends up unconscious at the end of a match. Plus, in addition to being knocked out fairly often, sometimes he is also knocked clear out of his clothes. No, I don’t know if there is a perfectly good reason for this.

Next, there’s the little matter of his new friends. Whether they’re actually friends is still a subject of much debate, but there is little doubt that Steve has been spending copious amounts of free time with Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. and the two men who comprise his latest tag team. One of them is very nice. The other is a prick of the highest order. As for Zeke himself? A little weird, but nothing terribly threatening.

Unless you count the skunks. Fortunately there weren’t any of those tonight, but that doesn’t mean the evening was completely without incident.

Matt Mills looks miserable. There are probably a number of reasons for this, so let’s list a few!

To start, these last few weeks have been relatively Steve free. To date he’s more or less been Steve Lemieux’s personal interviewer, having to deal with the inane babblings of a sandwich man who knows fuck-all about wrestling. That had been the routine until a few shows ago, when Steve stopped requesting interview time and the front office saw fit to assign Matt himself to those interviews. But now Steve is back and ready to talk, which means Millsy-baby has to pick up a microphone and do the job he’s paid to do: talk to a weirdo.

That’s it. That’s the reasons.

Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m backstage with Steve Lemieux…

He gestures to Steve. Steve continues to stand perfectly still like he’s preparing for school picture day.

Matt Mills: Steve, tonight saw your first win here in PRIME, but the match itself definitely wasn’t without its share of chaos.

Steve sighs. The expression on his face is that of a man who just learned that Santa isn’t real at the ripe old age of 37.

Steve Lemieux: Yeah.

Matt Mills: …

Steve Lemieux: …

Matt Mills: Is there anything you’d like to say to your…

“Hello, yes! I will speak on behalf of Stefan Lummox!”

That voice? It belongs to Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., and he is no stranger to PRIME television. Loyal fans might remember him from “that time a weirdo made everyone eat bowls of pureed cilantro during Tag Team Survivor.”

For the folks who watch the post-event press conferences, he’d be remembered as “that time a weirdo kept showing up to ask questions that made fuck-all sense to people who had just been in fights for their lives.”

And who among us can forget “that time a weirdo interviewed the Winds of Change to satisfy the whims of like 8 different sponsorships which you can tell because of all the product placement.”

Truly riveting stuff.

And now he’s here, on camera yet again, dressed in his Goodwill finest and brandishing a cane that he may or may not need to walk.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, hi. We are all very happy that Stefan Lummox has won his almonds and can now enjoy the healthy, nutritious crunch of delicious almonds.

Matt Mills: Do… do you mean the Almasy?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Maybe.

But Zeke is not alone. He’s flanked by two men. The first is a tall, lanky man in his mid-20s. He sports a mustache, a pair of sunglasses that have little teardrops dangling from the lenses, and an expression that says “I want to fuck every adult in this building at the same time with no breaks.” The second appears barely old enough to drink and looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, which is why they’re tucked into the pockets of a light athletic jacket.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But that is not the only reason we are here tonight! Nay-nay, if I may do my horse impersonation for you all.

Mills rolls his eyes. So does Nate, probably.

Dr. Zeke Dr. Badguy, Esq.: For you see the Homeless Man Tag Team Tournament of Homelessness looms on the horizon!

Matt Mills: The Flynn Cup?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: A truly perilous tournament, where so many tag teams will fight to see which one of them gets a home! It is a storied tournament with a storied history, full of many stories, not unlike the many buildings that the winning team will own when the event is over!

Matt Mills: What the f…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: For you see once upon a time there was a homeless tag team in the National Wrestling Council, who are not to be confused with the other homeless tag team that was in the National Wrestling Council. It is very strange that there were so many homeless tag teams in the National Wrestling Council, especially when you consider all the traveling.

Matt Mills: Uhh… Right.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And this is why I have brought my very own tag team here tonight! Strong, determined, and very not-homeless! They will carry on the legacy of my own evil henchmen, the Evil Henchmen. Who also wrestled in the National Wrestling Council!

Matt Mills’ eyes dart between everyone else in this scene, and he has the look of a man who has just been told to solve eternal secrets of the universe.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And now I will introduce them to you!

He gestures with his cane to the smaller man, inadvertently whacking him in the stomach with it. The kid barely recoils, but it’s obvious he’s trying to hide a grimace.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: The incomparable Johnny Wombat!

The young man, whose real name is Oliver Cade, sighs as his shoulders drop.

Ollie Cade: C’mon, I thought we talked about this and you weren’t going to keep trying to call me that.

Zeke points at the other man with his cane. It does not make contact.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: The Dickman!

His name is actually “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody.

Rick Hardbody: Accurate.

He blows a kiss to the camera. Congratulations, you all now have herpes. Super herpes.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And together they are… GENERATION H!

Both men groan and immediately begin whining.

Ollie Cade: Now I know we talked about a better name than that.

Rick Hardbody: Might as well call us fuckin’ Team Ass Cream.

For anyone wondering, Steve Lemieux hasn’t moved. Also we’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked in a solid minute.

Matt Mills: Well. (pause) That’s… (another pause) something.

Steve Lemieux: I have an idea!

Everyone turns to look at Steve, all of them having forgotten that he’s standing right there.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Oh, yes, hello, Stefan. I had forgotten you were standing right there.

See?

Steve Lemieux: What if we called ourselves something else?

Rick Hardbody: You’re not part of the fuckin’ team, pal.

Steve Lemieux: We could be the Lemieux Factory.

Rick Hardbody: No.

Steve Lemieux: Or the Lemieuxminati.

Rick Hardbody: No.

Steve Lemieux: Or what about the Red Meat Army?

Ollie Cade: Honestly that one’s not terrible.

Rick Hardbody: Everything about this is terrible. Watch, he’s probably going to call us something like “the Egg Sandwich Bandits,” or some shit.

Steve Lemieux: Buns and beans, I wouldn’t use that name.

Ollie shoots Rick a look. The look is one meant to convey “ha ha you were wrong you big dumb idiot look at how big and dumb you are” using just a slight raise of the eyebrows and a quick half-grin.

Steve Lemieux: But if we want to keep that idea we could be the Sausage Robbers!

Rick sighs. There are so many curse words swirling around in his head right now that it has pushed all the horny thoughts aside. He shakes his head and walks away, muttering something about “the dumbest shit he’s ever heard.” Ollie follows him, but takes a moment to give Steve a reassuring pat on the back first.

This leaves poor Matt Mills alone with Steve and Dr. Zeke, so he does the only sensible thing: he signals to the cameraman to end this bullshit right now.

We fade.

A bathroom.

A bucket of sketti.

By now, you know what time it is.

Fred Dick: We don’t have a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin show! The Colton Fam can kiss my big white ace, and this is my fuggin show! It’s Baffroom Fights and ya better be ready, it’s mothafuggin Freddy and a Bucket of Skettiiiiiii… which ya win if yew kick my ace! Bahaha!

Fred tap dances a little bit.

Fred Dick: Now, I know what all yew must be thankin’. Y’all thankin’, hell, here’s a guy who calls himself the Innovator of Lavatory Violence, and yet, he got stabbed in the leg, had a toilet lid smashed over his head, and an entire family of Coltons whoopin’ his ass up and down the baffroom. Well I’m here to tell ya, if that’s what yew thank, then fug yourself aceho! YEW THANK ITS EASY PUTTIN’ A SHOW LIKE THIS TOGETHER!?!? YEW THANK A MAN CAN JUST MAGICALLY WIN HANDICAP BAFFROOM FIGHTS!?!?! FUG YASELVES TWICE, ONCE FER ME, AND ONCE FER THEE!!!

Fred nearly hyperventilates as he ran out of oxygen towards the end of that spiel. The red flees from his face, he takes a deep inhale, and continues.

Fred Dick: My damn, sleep apnea was actin’ up while I was awake right den. Ain’t dat some sheeeeeeyidddd? Anyway y’all know the rules by now. And if ya don’t? Catch a muhfuggin re-run, cock-ace! I did add one rule. No more families. I’m tired, just so damn tired, of entire family lineages runnin’ trains on me in the baffroom. Enough is enough, I say. It’s time for a change, I say.

Fred rubs his head. Shakes it. Looks towards the bathroom door.

Fred Dick: Fuggit. Let’s find out who the next contestant is on Baffroom Fights with Freddy and Sketti!

Powerslam Anubis: Greetings.

Fred almost jumps out of his Jordans, because the great Powerslam Anubis almost literally apparates onto the scene behind him. And when a fuckin’ seven foot tall god in a jackal mask carrying a staff with a set of scales on it suddenly appears behind you, even the Innovator of Lavatory Violence might get caught off-guard.

Powerslam Anubis: The great Powerslam Anubis was informed by the eagles on high that there is a bucket of “sketti” somewhere in the vicinity. Long have I desired to discover for myself what this is all about.

Fred’s jaw has nearly touched the floor the entire time his eyes have been laid on this specimen of a God, such that he uses his finger to bring his jaw back up to his face. Then, he frowns.

Fred Dick: I don’t appreciate gettin’ creeped on, the great Powerslam Anubis, but y’know what? I do appreciate yo’ desire for a bucket of sketti. That’s a damn desire DAT I DO BE SHARIN’ WIT DA GAWDS. Neow, I take it the Great Powerslam Anubis knows the rules? The rules bein’, they ain’t no damn rules, a knockout wins, and winner gets the Sketti Bucket? And the winner GOTS ta put over the Sketti Bucket? You know dem rules?

Powerslam Anubis: The laws of this land were written long before you were born, carved upon tablets.

There is a pause.

Powerslam Anubis: So, yes.

Fred Dick claps his hands together.

Fred Dick: Then let’s get it on!!!

Fred pulls a canister of pepper spray from his pocket.

Fred Dick: Tricked ya, sumbitch!!!

He sprays it at the great Powerslam Anubis.

Anubis stands there for a few moments, completely unfazed, almost as if his mask is protecting him in some way. Or maybe Fred got the fabby-brand pepper spray.

Powerslam Anubis: Why do you attempt to pepper spray a god, o woeful mortal?

He pauses to sniff the air.

Powerslam Anubis: Wait. What exactly was in that spray?

Fred Dick: Piss and patchouli.

Powerslam Anubis: ……The great Powerslam Anubis is going to start pummeling you now. He does not know when he will stop.

Fred, suddenly, experiences a rational moment.

A god, a powerful wrestling god, is about to beat his ass for spraying piss at him.

And Fred?

Well, he runs. Locks himself in a stall. Cowers in the corner between the toilet and the dooky paper.

Anubis throws down his scaled staff, grabs hold of the stall door, and tears it open like he’s a can opener and the door is just one big can. He almost seamlessly transitions from “can opener” to “man opener” as he grabs hold of Fred and starts beating him over the head with his mighty paws. He also headbutts him to spread the piss and patchouli around. Fred is having no fun at all, and tries crawling under the stall and into the adjacent stall to escape.

Anubis, undeterred, grabs hold of Fred’s foot and tries to reel him back in. Fred kicks at him, eventually prying himself from a god’s grip. Somehow. Anubis stops his assault, considering his options, and then we cut to the inside of the stall with Fred Dick. Fred has resorted to standing on the toilet, hoping that maybe if Anubis can’t see that he’s in the stall he’s escaped to, he won’t pursue him.

It’s a very Caboose-like “If I can’t see him, he can’t see me!” kind of logic.

Suddenly, he hears laughter in the air, and he looks up.

Powerslam Anubis is looking at him from above, because the bathroom stalls are not exactly built for men that stood as tall as he is. Fred screams and tries to run, but as the camera cuts to follow him, Anubis appears right in front of him and clobbers him with a lariat. Fred lands hard on the bathroom floor, and rolls to get up.

He looks up to see Anubis as black smoke seems to rise from his very being, like if we let all of the Dusk smoke machines go a little too long. The bathroom becomes shrouded in darkness, and Fred stands up confused on which direction he should be running towards. Then Anubis hits him, several times, from different angles, so quickly that Fred doesn’t even know how he’s getting hit. It’s a fifteen-hit combo and by the end of it, Fred is down and Anubis stands over him.

Fred Dick: Goddamn…

Fred spits blood out of his mouth to the tile surface below him.

Fred Dick: You whooped my ace. Furr and squrr, you whooped my ace. Gotta hand it to ya. Didn’t think it was gonna go this way if I’m being real about it. You mind if I say a last word before you knock my ace out, and put over the Sketti Bucket?

Powerslam Anubis: The great Powerslam Anubis does not see why not.

Fred did not anticipate this answer. This is his first contestant to show him real, believable grace in this moment. He didn’t really have anything to say, you know? He was anticipating just getting his head caved in and wrapping up an episode. Yet now, an infinite array of possibilities is at his disposal. He could say literally anything, anything at all. He spends a moment weighing these infinite possibilities, before finally settling on the only thing he was 100% sure about.

Fred Dick: I like tiddies.

Powerslam Anubis: On this, we can agree, mortal.

And then Anubis stomps him right on the face so that Fred can take a nice nap, dreaming of tiddies.

Anubis turns to the Sketti Bucket resting on the seat and… walks to it. Like a normal person. He picks it up and examines it. He’s evidently surprised. We think. The mask hides a bit.

Powerslam Anubis: BY RA’S THIRD GOLDEN TEET! This is nearly an irresponsible amount of Sketti!

He takes a bite of it.

Powerslam Anubis: …….The great Powerslam Anubis judges this Sketti Bucket… worthy.

He flashes a big, cheesy thumbs up for the camera.

A musical version of Fred’s opening song hits while Powerslam Anubis holds this pose.

Then, three and some odd seconds before the song is actually over, we cut away.

After yet another fight in a bathroom over a bucket of Sketti, ReVival once again finds Lindsay Troy in her office, only this time her back is turned to the camera because she’s on the phone.

Lindsay Troy: We’re three weeks away, do you think that’s enough time?

She pauses for the person on the other end to finish their sentence.

Lindsay Troy: It’s not about not trusting Decorator Plague Doctor, it’s—

Another pause. A soft sigh.

Lindsay Troy: OK, Henry. I’ll stop worrying about it. I’ll see you later.

She hangs up the phone, turns around, and nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees Elise Ares, The D, and Klein, collectively known as the Pop Culture Phenoms, standing in front of her desk.

Lindsay Troy: How the hell did you get in here?

Elise Ares: Hey BBY, as you know a lady never tells her secrets.

The Leading Lady follows with a wink.

Lindsay Troy: I must not have locked the door after de Lacy and Diet Hank left. Whatever. The answer is no to whatever it is you want. Now go away.

The D: As an award winning, critically acclaimed director of such movies as Lake Placid Vi V: Ooo-woo-whoo and the critically acclaimed YouTube video, Donald Trump eats a thousand hot dogs, I know a thing or two about managing talent. I like to think of myself as someone at the point in my career where I can do a lot of good in this business and share from my wealth of knowledge to help mentor the next generation of leaders in Sports Entertainment. I want you to take a look at Elise Ares here and tell me what you see.

Ares does a little spin for Lindsay, her recent opponent at DEFIANCE’s DEFCON PPV and ends it with a pose holding her hand behind her head with a smile.

Lindsay Troy: The sixth member of Fifth Harmony?

Elise quickly looks back at The D with a look of frustration.

The D: Well when everyone else sees Elise Ares they see a winner. Championship material. A top of the card “ACE,” as they call it in our business, who puts a lot of asses in seats. A former PRIME Five Star Champion, a former PRIME Tag Team Champion, a three time former DEFIANCE Tag Team Champion, at one point in time this woman was the longest reigning DEFIANCE Southern Heritage Champion in history!

Elise Ares: That qualifier wasn’t necessary.

The D: She will be your leading lady. This is a sports entertainer who should be on the headline of your Almasy Tournament just on the heels of her huge signing… but here we are, backstage, not even in the bracket.

The Boss just stands there staring at the duo, already exhausted by their presence.

Elise Ares: And this is The D!

The D puffs out his chest like Superman.

Elise Ares: A two time DEFIANCE Tag Team Champion, a former DEFIANCE Favoured Saints Champion. Hand-picked by PRIME Hall of Famer Jack Harmen to teach the future of this business, and how to be a star through his…

Lindsay Troy: Look. The deal was I go back to DEFIANCE to fight Elise at DEFCON and you two come to PRIME and compete in the tag division. You catch those key words? TAG DIVISION. Not “tag division and maybe a singles tournament if we feel like it.” Maybe I would have given you a little leeway if you didn’t try to sandbag for more money that you didn’t get. Maybe. 

As Elise and The D look at each other in frustration for answers. Klein takes a step forward and twirls like Ares and puts his hand behind his box waiting to be showered with compliments for his turn. It doesn’t come.

The D: Lindsay, it’s okay to make a mistake we all…

Elise’s eyes say “We all what?”

The D: Everyone except Elise can make a mistake…

This appeases the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style.

The D: But we don’t come with complaints, we come with solutions. Surely the talent level of a high profile signing like the Pop Culture Phenoms warrant a change in plans. A script rewrite. A revision. A reshoot. I propose to you that Elise Ares and The D get a first-round BYE.

Elise Ares: Yes El Tee, think of the suspense. Think of the intrigue. Think of all the extra money you’ll be putting in your pocket if the Faithf- er… what do they call the poors here again? Line?

The D: Ew. Primates.

Elise Ares: Think of all the extra money you’ll be putting in your pocket if the Ew, Primates know that the winner of a first round match will be facing Elise Ares or The D in the next round. If you ask me, I think your decision to bring us on board is totes paying off. Think of this as a one-time free consultation for your booking needs.

The D: The first taste is always free. The second is an increase in pay.

Lindsay Troy: I haven’t changed my mind about the answer being no to whatever it is you want.

Elise Ares: You know what D… I think I may have been right about her. Apparently I didn’t stop her hard enough at DEFCON.

The D: Next time you leave us out of plans you’ll be hearing from our lawyer.

Klein quickly pulls out a monocle and attempts to place it into his box.

Elise Ares: NOT NOW KLEIN, we’re storming out! Hmpf!

The Pop Culture Phenoms shoot Lindsay Troy a glare before marching out of the scene. Klein lingers, waving happily to a disgruntled boss.

Lindsay Troy: You’re a good boy, Klein, but you’d better go with them.

Cut to ringside!

Nick Stuart: Up next we have Chandler Tsonda–

Richard Parker: Booooooo!

Nick Stuart: …Taking on Daniel Green–

Richard Parker: Yaaaaaay!

Nick Stuart: Would you stop? In some more first round Almasy action!

The lights dim. Not all the way. Softly. What light remains casts a gentle, yellow-orange hue around the arena as the jingle-jangling guitar of “Cigarette Daydreams” by Cage The Elephant hits the speakers.

Did you stand there all alone?
Oh, I cannot explain what’s goin’ down
I can see you standin’ next to me
In and out somewhere else right now

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, from Central Falls, Rhode Island! Weighing in at 198 pounds and standing 6 feet, one inches tall! He is one half of the Green Vale Gang! DANIELLLLLL GREEEEEEEEN!!!

And out steps two young men, not even old enough to drink, led by DOCTOR Ned Reform. Handsome bone structure, classic haircuts, it’s all very academic, in an elite prep school way. In another life, the pair would be the worst characters in a Fitzgerald novel. Hugo Vale, old American money reincarnated as a smug, brash asshole in a tweed suit, and Daniel Green, a battle-tested gentleman who has made the most of his ample opportunities, wearing tight-clinging, black MMA trunks.

You sigh, look away
I can see it clear as day
Close your eyes, so afraid
Hide behind that baby face
Do-do-do
Do-do-do

They are imminently easy to hate, the way their childish hearts allow them to wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders, and sing their own theme music like drunk lads at a bar together, just as the bass and drum touch the track.

You can drive all night
Lookin’ for the answers in the pourin’ rain
You wanna find peace of mind
Lookin’ for the answer

Ned allows them to enjoy the moment, though his face conveys the concern a father might have when his children are being mildly embarrassing. Hugo and Daniel are in their own privileged, youthful world as they almost dance together down to the ring, a giggliness to their behavior that betrays the kind of carefree attitude that most people can’t afford.They glide up the stairs and walk to either side of the apron, before stepping through the ropes in unison.

Hugo and Daniel meet Ned Reform in the center of the squared circle. There, in front of the hoi polloi that is the PRIME fanbase, they pose, and soak in the jeers. Ned exchanges a handshake with Daniel and Hugo daps him up before they exit the ring, leaving him there to man the boat on his own.

Richard Parker: Do you think that, like, they think I’m chill?

Nick Stuart: …You should feel a lot of shame, Richard.

Richard Parker: I bet they do. I bet they think that I’m pretty chill.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days.

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

Vince Howard: From San Diego, California! Standing at five feet and eleven inches, 187 pounds! He is, ‘THE MODEL CITIZENNNN!!!’ CHANDLERRRRR!!! TSONDAAAAA!!!

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he gingerly sprints to the ring, slides gently in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, though not nearly as spry as usual, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda looks as though despite being worse for wear after Ultra Violence, where he went toe to toe with Stanislav in the Warchamber, he’s ready to go!

DING DING

But it’s clear from that opening bell that Chandler Tsonda is anything but ready to go.

Nick Stuart: A big time lariat out the gate from Daniel Green!

In fact, it’s clear from that opening bell that Chandler Tsonda still feels very much like shit.

Nick Stuart: And now Daniel is just stomping his rib cage like it insulted his dear mother!

Daniel Green is on the attack – and Chandler, immediately, is just surviving.

Even the way Chandler tries to start climbing to his feet suggests untold amounts of wear and tear on his body. There’s a frailty to his activity we’ve never seen from him. Shaking arms, weak knees.

And Daniel, meanwhile, is a kid in a candy store.

He sends a stiff foot right into Tsonda’s ribs, the unmistakable CRACK sound of bone contacting bone at a high velocity. The air voids Tsonda’s lungs and he rolls onto his back.

Richard Parker: Get him Daniel!

Then the Model Citizen feels nearly 200 pounds of angry young man mount his chest.

After that, he only feels pain.

Daniel begins a barrage of hammer fists, slamming into Chandler’s face and neck area. Tsonda’s only defense in the moment is to cover his face with his hands.

Nick Stuart: I think Daniel Green is trying to send a message here, Richard!

Richard Parker: The message is loud and clear and very awesome, Nick!

Nick Stuart: I despise how much you cape for these guys.

Richard Parker: I don’t cape!

Nick Stuart: Oh, you cape, pal! You cape big time!

Ned applauds as Daniel Green lifts himself off of Tsonda and holds his arms out wide, expecting, no, demanding praise. Hugo winks at Danny Boy and while Tsonda writhes around on the ground, Daniel takes the time to walk over to the ropes, reach out and dap up Hugo.

Normally, Tsonda would make someone pay for losing focus on him like that. He would jump to his feet, send an elbow to the back of Daniel’s head, dump him over the ropes, and hit a high spot like only Chandler Tsonda can!

…Only, Chandler Tsonda can’t.  And this isn’t normal for him.

By the time Green re-directs his attention back to Tsonda?

Tsonda’s barely reached all fours.

And Green? Well…

He curbstomps him. Right there in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Good god!

Richard Parker: It’s over! Tsonda just doesn’t have it tonight, Nick.

Daniel makes the cover! Hooks both legs!

Jimmy Turnbull starts the count!

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEE!!!

NO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda kicks out but boy, that was too close for comfort!

Richard Parker: Typical Turnbull. Slow Jimmy. That’s what I call him.

Nick Stuart: Say it to his face.

Richard Parker: No. No, I don’t think I will.

Daniel Green, to his credit, appears unphased by the kickout. More surprised, or even almost impressed, that the old geriatric would want more of this beatdown he’s been on the receiving end of.

So Daniel moves to a turnbuckle, leans back in it, and gets real comfortable. He watches with a smug look on his face as Tsonda, awkwardly, uncomfortably, makes the grueling trek back up to his feet. It takes a while. It’s a little hard to watch, for anyone that isn’t Daniel Green, who is like a hyena, practically licking his chops.

When Tsonda finally reaches his feet?

Daniel charges! A HUGE KICK FROM DANIEL TO – NO!!! A DROP TOE HOLD BY TSONDA DROPS DANIEL!!!

Tsonda quickly grabs hold of Daniel’s ankle while they’re both on the ground!

Nick Stuart: Ankle lock by Tsonda!! An ankle lock by Tsonda, and now he has Green in a bad spot!

Richard Parker: Ned! Hugo! Do something!!!

But Hugo and Ned only watch on. Daniel Green told them under no uncertain terms to involve themselves in this one, unless Tsonda had people do so on his behalf. So now Ned and Hugo clamor, their bodies instinctively moving to get involved while simultaneously holding themselves back.

This is no good for Daniel. They’d likely have already gotten him out of this. Tsonda only wrenches that ankle of Daniel’s harder, which propels Daniel to drag himself towards the nearest ropes he can find!

Daniel reaches the ropes! Turnbull gives Tsonda a count and Tsonda doesn’t release Green’s ankle until he makes it to four!

But Daniel doesn’t have a body that was broken in Warchamber against the Russian Bear. So when he is freed from Tsonda’s clutches, and he pulls himself up to his feet, he turns around to find Tsonda on one knee.

And CRACK!

Daniel Green elbows the living fuck out of Tsonda’s jaw.

Richard Parker: Wooooo!

Nick Stuart: We reserve that for knife edge chops, Richard.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but did you hear that? HA! I bet Tsonda’s jaw is broken!

But Daniel doesn’t go for the cover here. A rookie mistake, maybe, but maybe he knows that Chandler isn’t cooked completely. Maybe he saw the life still in Chandler’s open, albeit glazed eyes as he lies crumpled on the mat.

Or, maybe, he’s just a sadist. Since the next thing he does is mount Chandler Tsonda and grind his forearm into and all over Tsonda’s face. Tsonda tries to fight back, but Daniel is holding him down sufficiently.

Nick Stuart: That’s enough! Do your job, Turnbull!

Turnbull already was, by the way, giving Daniel the count. Daniel stopped at four, but then went right back to doing it.

Nick Stuart: Stop him!

Turnbull is, indeed, stopping him. He pulls Daniel away, and Daniel instinctively turns to swing at Turnbull, before realizing who it is. Turnbull gets in Daniel’s face, severely warning him not to treat the rules like mere guidelines. Daniel, in response, had all kinds of complaints to hurl back at Jimmy, both professional and personal in nature.

Neither of them notice Chandler Tsonda slowly, gingerly, climbing the turnbuckles behind them.

But the fans do. And they can’t help but cheer the man whose legendary career they’ve followed for so long.

It was heroic for him to take this match after what he went through at Ultra Violence.

It is heroic for him now, in this moment, to be perched on that turnbuckle.

They can’t help but reach an absolute fever pitch.

Which finally grows loud enough to interrupt Turnbull and Green’s argument.

They both turn to see Chandler Tsonda–

Just in time to watch him leap off that top turnbuckle!!!

Tsonda’s back, and lets be honest, his head at this point in the match, aren’t as capable as they were when the bell rang – and given the nature of Tsonda’s injuries, not as capable as they were weeks ago. He finds himself unable to do much in the air, not like usual.

Still. The form of that crossbody is picture perfect.

As he soars through the air, the flashing camera phones fluttering in the audience male all the sense in the world. It’s just a beautiful sight to behold.

Only to be interrupted.

By, perhaps…

One of the most utterly vicious uppercuts we’ve ever seen from Daniel Green.

Tsonda crashes to the mat.

Lights. Fucking. Out.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God of my God.

Richard Parker: Let’s get this three count going and some EMT’s out here to check on Tsonda.

Daniel Green absolutely does his part.

He makes the cover.

Turnbull then follows suit with the count.

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEE!!!

It’s over. Daniel Green has done it.

…

But why isn’t the bell ringing?

That’s when Daniel looks up, and sees it.

His first pin attempt of the bout, Daniel hooked both legs. The way he’d been taught by Ned Reform to do.

This time, he did not.

And there, dangling from the bottom rope, is one of Chandler Tsonda’s unhooked, outstretched legs.

Was it luck? Cosmic fate? Instinct?

It didn’t matter.

Tsonda did not lose.

Not yet.

The fans? Well, they roar.

Nick Stuart: Incredible! Absolutely incredible!

Richard Parker: Damn it! Slow Jimmy strikes yet again.

Nick Stuart: Say it to his face.

Richard Parker: I already said I’m not gonna. I said that already. Don’t tell me to do that again because I already said I’m not gonna do it. So quit it! Quit telling me that!!!

Nick Stuart: You seem a little sensitive right now.

So does Daniel Green, who is once again back in Jimmy Turnbull’s face. Violent youth, unwilling to accept responsibility for his mistake, Green is about ready to punch Turnbull’s lights out when–

TSONDA SPINS GREEN AROUND!!!

Nick Stuart: HE’S ON HIS FEET!!! CHANDLER TSONDA’S ON HIS FEET!!!

Small package pin attempt by The Model Citizen!!!

Turnbull makes the cover!!!

ONE!!!

Daniel’s legs flail wildly but he’s unable to kick out!!!

TWO!!!

Hugo can’t take it! He rushes the ring!!!

IT DOESN’T MATTER!!!

THREEEEEEEEE!!!!!

DING! DING!

Nick Stuart: UNBELIEVABLE!!! THE MODEL CITIZEN HAS WON IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING HE WENT THROUGH AT ULTRA VIOLENCE AND IN THIS MATCH!!!

Richard Parker: This is possibly one of the top 200 worst days of my life all the sudden.

Vince Howard: Heeere is yoooour winnerrr… CHANDLERRRRRRR TSONDAAAAAAA!!!

Tsonda breaks the pin and escapes the ring and immediately starts scrambling towards the entrance ramp and up it. The same veteran savvy that led to that successful small package victory now steers him away from what would undoubtedly end up becoming a 3 on 1 post-match beatdown.

Daniel Green seethes in the center of the ring. Hugo and Ned try to console him, but it’s no use. He needs a punching bag to console him.

We cut away from ringside.

As we switch to a shot of the ring, we find Angelica Brooks standing in its center. Waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for several PRIME official-looking people to hoist the one and only (we hope) Rexton William Bader and his wheelchair, equipped with his trusty oxygen tank, up into the ring. The Target Center is less patient than Brooks, and they boo wildly. We can hear crude insults being tossed Bader’s way.

Bader, for his part, is dead-faced while the officials get his chair up to shoulder-height while other officials, in the ring, reach down to pull him up over the top rope.

Nick Stuart: This is a disgrace. I can’t believe he’s still doing this.

All this time, Jason Snow, stands stoically outside of the ring, dressed, as usual, head-to-toe in white.

Nick Stuart: The entire world watched this man stand up out of his chair and attack Hayes Hanlon at UltraViolence. What is he doing here?

It seems Angelica Brooks has finally had enough.

Angelica Brooks: Do we really have to go through this charade? We all saw you at UltraViolence, Bader. We all know that wheelchair is nothing more than a prop. And apparently a weapon.

This finally sparks some movement out of Bader, who slowly turns his fleshy face Brooks’s way. He lowers the aviator sunglasses to expose a pair of eyeballs wide with fury. And even though he has no microphone we can hear him, quite clearly, say, “The fuck did you just say to me?” And then, “Gimme that. Gimme that.” He’s pointing at the microphone.

Brooks reluctantly obliges, and hands her microphone to Bader (not the easiest task, as she’s reaching around the bodies of Bader’s helpers).

Rexton William Bader: What in the fuck did you just say to me? You have any idea how fucking disrespectful it is to accuse a man of my trials and plights of being able-bodied? Nah. Nah. If PRIME doesn’t want to install wheelchair ramps, then FUCK THEM AND FUCK EVERYBODY IN THIS ARENA. YOU WILL FUCKING WAIT FOR ME TO GET INTO THIS RING BECAUSE I HAVE THE SAME RIGHTS AS EVERY-ABLE-BODY IN THIS BITCH. I WILL NOT BE DISRESPECTED! I WILL NOT! SO YOU WAIT. ALL OF YOU WILL FUCKING WAIT!

Nick Stuart: He doesn’t need a wheelchair ramp any more than I do.

Richard Parker: There’s only one explanation for this, Nick.

Nick Stuart: He’s been conning us all along?

Richard Parker: We witnessed a divine miracle at UltraViolence.

Nick Stuart: We did not.

Richard Parker: Blasphemy.

Bader throws the microphone back into the ring, not exactly “at” Angelica Brooks, but not quite not “at” her either. Brooks gives Bader a threatening look, like she might turn this interview into a match right now, but in the end her professionalism wins out. She picks up the microphone, crosses her arms, and waits.

Eventually, Bader is placed in the ring by the now-tired PRIME officials, who stand ringside to wait for his exit.

Jason Snow finally walks up the ring steps and steps through the ropes.

Angelica Brooks loathes Rexton William Bader. You can see it all over her face and body language. So much so that it takes her a moment to work up her first question.

Angelica Brooks: Rexton William Bader. You have been brought out here today to answer for what we saw at UltraViolence.

Bader takes a swipe at Brooks’s microphone but she pulls it up and away from him.

Angelica Brooks: For months you have been claiming to be confined to that wheelchair, a paraplegic. And quite frankly it is both appalling and disturbing that you’ve come out here tonight in that wheelchair again, after what happened two weeks ago.

Bader has called for a microphone from ringside, which is tossed in to him.

Rexton William Bader: What? What exactly are you accusing me of here, lady? Hey look, I don’t know what you think you saw, but I’ve been in this chair, or one like it, for over thirty years. And I find it both APPALLING and DISORIENTING that YOU’RE out here claiming otherwise. But I guess that’s what I get.

Angelica Brooks: What do you mean, “that’s what you get?”

Rexton William Bader: Look. Look. I know you and me? We have a bit of a timultulating history. Every time we walk into–I mean I mean I mean every time you walk and I roll into the same room, you can feel it. I can feel it. Everyone in this whole arena can feel it.

Angelica Brooks: What.

Rexton William Bader: Sexual tension.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God he did not just say that.

Angelica Brooks: Oh my God you did not just say–

Rexton William Bader: Don’t try to deny it, Brooks. Your eyes give you away every time. Nobody’s ever gonna believe it. But just because you can’t have this, DOES NOT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO FUCKING SLANDER ME! You understand that? Jezebel.

Brooks frowns. Through clenched teeth she continues.

Angelica Brooks: Rexton. At UltraViolence, we all saw with our own eyes how you stood up out of that wheelchair and then used it as a weapon against Hayes Hanlon. We all saw you–

Rexton William Bader: Hey I don’t know what you THINK you saw. But that ain’t what happened what you said. What happened was my client, Mr. Jason Snow, who just so happens to be the greatest wrestler in the history of the sport–except for probably me–righted two wrongs in the same match. He got revenge on both Hayes Hanlon and Nate Colton, and he did it EASY. Barely broke a sweat. He–

Angelica Brooks: Roll the tape.

Rexton William Bader: Hey! No! Do not interrupt me while I’m talking.

Angelica Brooks: Roll it.

Rexton William Bader: Stop. Everyone look here in the ring. Don’t look at that screen. Look here. Me in my wheelchair. Where I’ve been since 1995. Or ‘93 I mean. I’VE BEEN IN THIS FUCKING WHEELCHAIR SINCE 1993 AND ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE IS A GOD DAMN LIAR AND DOES NOT RESPECT THE RIGHTS OF THE HANDICAPPED! But what more could I expect from PRIME? This whole–

But the video is playing. And there on the big screen, just like Angelica Brooks said, is Rexton William Bader standing amid the barrage of trash being thrown at him two weeks ago at UltraViolence.

Rexton William Bader: That is not real! That IS NOT a real video you’re seeing. That is AN AI-GENERATED image, meant to SLANDER ME! Me, a man in a wheelchair, being SLANDERED!

Angelica Brooks: There were thousands of witnesses LIVE, in Toronto.

Rexton William Bader: What the fuck is that worth? They’re from fucking CANADA. Their opinions don’t mean shit. The whole country’s just beavers and lying pricks. Everyone knows that.

Jason Snow, who is Canadian, doesn’t acknowledge any of this in the least.

Brooks shakes her head, frustrated. She looks over at Snow as if he might give her something, some kind of answer or solution to just how frustrating Rexton William Bader–a man with no allegiance to truth whatsoever–can be.

But Snow just stands there with his lowered head, his face mostly hidden by the shadow of his hood.

Rexton William Bader: Let me state this as clearly as I can, Brooks, because I will not sit here and be insulted by some Jezebel floozy trying to get revenge because, no–for the last time, NO–I will not sleep with you. Here is what I am. I am a paraplegic, who struggles with life in a wheelchair, even though my dick still works just fine, and I have come to guide history’s greatest wrestler–except probably for me–back to glory. That’s it. End of story. The rest of it, Brooks, IS JUST PURE BULLSHIT!

The audience is booing hard, and, like we saw at UltraViolence, some trash is starting to enter the ring. Jason Snow finally moves when a cup of beer lands perilously close and splashes all over the ring, first to step out of the way and then to glare in the direction from which the object came.

Angelica Brooks: We ALL saw you, Bader. We all–

Rexton William Bader: I DON’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS WHAT YOU SAW! What you THINK you saw! I did not come out here to be insulted by some heart-broken hussey’s allegations! I came out here–

Oh God, the boos.

Rexton William Bader: Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up if you want to hear what I have to say!

Bader takes a hot dog to the shoulder.

Rexton William Bader: That’s a lawsuit! That right there! Somebody in security needs to watch that video tape–not the AI generated one–and find out who threw that! Because I’M SUING THE SHIT OUT OF THEM! You get your jollies out of throwing shit at cripples, fuckers? Come on then. Come on. Throw it. Throw shit. I’ll sue every God damn one of you! I’ll own this whole fucking company and every one of your fucking firstborns, you keep it up. Gah head. Gah head.

This is getting out of hand. The ring is filling with debris and security has to tackle a would-be attacker moments before he is able to slide into the ring.

Nick Stuart: We need to lower the temperature in here.

Richard Parker: Could somebody backstage get my car started? If this keeps up, I’m out of here.

Things take a serious turn when a folding chair comes flying at the ring. Luckily it hits the top rope and bounces harmlessly to the floor.

A second disgruntled fan manages to thwart security and slides under the bottom rope… only to find himself dealing with far-less-stoic Jason Snow, who quickly deals the fan back over the top rope and out onto the floor.

Nick Stuart: Okay, okay, this is too much. This is–Look. Look. Vince Howard is getting into the ring.

That is indeed the case. Vince Howard is entering the ring, presumably to cool things down.

…But Bader, covered in condiments, is still heating them up.

Rexton William Bader: I came out here to talk about next week’s match between Jason Snow and Hessian! Two former champions. Two LEGENDS! I DID NOT COME OUT HERE TO BE ASSAULTED!

He looks at Brooks.

Rexton Wiliam Bader: SEXUALLY OR OTHERWISE!

Vince Howard has made his way to the center of the ring. He squares up.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been sent to inform you that you MUST calm down, and refrain from throwing objects into the ring, for the sake of your own safety as well as the safety of PRIME employees. I have also been told to inform you that, while you are free to voice your displeasure, vocally, in any way you choose, if PRIME management fears for the safety of both our employees and our audience, we will be forced to STOP THE SHOW IMMEDIATELY.

There’s a collective groan from the crowd, but the incoming debris slows dramatically.

Rexton William Bader: You hear that? You hear that, fuckers? Let me translate. That means, IF YOU DON’T CALM THE FUCK DOWN, we’re ALL going home. No Cancer fucking Jiles. No Ivan Stanislav. YOU ALL NEED TO SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND LISTEN TO WHAT I–

The crowd absolutely explodes when Vince Howard plucks the microphone out of Rexton William Bader’s hand.

Bader, of course, is livid.

We cut to a tight shot of Vince Howard, chest up, and we can see Bader’s hands and finger-tips entering the shot while he makes swipes for Howard’s microphone.

Vince Howard: PRIME thanks you for your cooperation. We will now move on with the rest of the sh–

But that’s when the lights go out.

Richard Parker: Oh Jesus, they’ve cut the power! It’s every man for himself, Nick! I’m outta heaark!

Parker forgets to remove his headset however, as he leaps out of his chair. The tension of the cable straightening causes his head to snap back and sends him pinwheeling back into his chair which rolls into Nick’s. His partner reaches out to brace his fall.

Richard Parker: HELP! NICK! THEY’VE GOT ME! GET ‘EM OFF! DON’T LET THEM TAKE ME!

Nick Stuart: Will you calm down man! It’s okay, it’s me! No one’s trying to-

A guttural rhythm suddenly bursts through the PA, causing Nick to pause mid-sentence, and the PRIME*View lights up with the entrance video that accompanies “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead. A loud cheer erupts around the arena, sprinkled with boos from the anti-Bandit contingent in attendance as the house lights pulse and flash in time to the music, lighting up the astonished faces of Nick and Richard. Bader whips his head from Vince’s microphone to the stage, flustered by the interruption. Snow’s gaze follows, his posture stiffening a little.

Nick Stuart: -look, no one’s cut the power Richard, it’s Hessian!

Richard glances around, realizes what he’s done and, thinking no one’s noticed, promptly adjusts his chair and returns to his position, smoothing his hair and jacket.

Richard Parker: Yes, I can see that Nick, I just don’t know why you’re trying to cause a scene.

As Nick facepalms, the giant emerges onto the stage to more cheers. His gait is slow and methodical and he’s stooping forward ever so slightly, a curious expression directed towards the two men in the ring. And he has a microphone. He meanders down the ramp and raises the stick as his music fades out, talking as he walks.

Hessian: I ask you something?

The question appears to be rhetorical, as he continues to talk while Bader throws his arms up and grabs at the air, demanding a microphone find its way to him. Snow is still as a statue.

Hessian: Do you feel like you’ve lost a step?

His eyebrows arch as he asks the question, staring directly at Snow now as he continues down the ramp, his tone becoming drier with every word. Bader rolls back to the ropes, barking at Vince for a goddamn mic.

Hessian: Because I don’t feel like I have. I feel like something’s missing, sure. But I also feel as good as I ever was. So now I’m wondering if that’s something you’re even aware of when it’s happening to you.

Richard Parker: What is he babbling on about?

Nick Stuart: And why do I feel like we’ve heard this before…

Snow scans Hessian’s eyes as the Murder Show stops at the bottom of the ramp, searching for the purpose in his words. The giant’s tone is completely flat now.

Hessian: I don’t know. Just thinking out loud. One old guy to another.

Snow drops his gaze to the floor at the realization of what’s being said, his jaw muscles pulling tight as he grits his teeth behind closed lips and looks back at Hessian. The big man pulls himself up onto the apron and clears the top rope into the ring. Seeing this, Bader rolls back towards Snow with his hand raised in a stop gesture, beckoning Hessian to hold fast before gesturing for his microphone. The giant steps up to Snow, who doesn’t budge. From the silence that follows, the next question isn’t rhetorical.

Hessian: Those are your words Jason. You said them right to me before we stepped into the ring together last year. Is that what you meant?

Hess points his finger at Bader. No response from Snow. The microphone just about picks up Bader’s voice as he shunts forward defiantly.

“What the fuck is this? Jesus Christ, look at the size of this fucking guy. What kind of BULLSHIT security are we dealing with here? MINNEAPOLIS FUCKS ME AGAIN!”

The Murder Show doesn’t acknowledge the outburst.

Hessian: Because, as I recall, you didn’t need him to beat me last year. So what’s changed since then? What could possibly possess one of the most respected, feared and legendary figures in this sport-

He turns to look Bader dead in the eye.

Hessian: -to lean on a goddamned, literal, CRUTCH??

Bader freezes, his eyes bugged and jaw hanging open as the fans whoop and holler, applauding the slight.

Richard Parker: Oh shit.

Nick Stuart: I-yep. What you said.

Hessian: I just spent three months trying to shake off a pair of upstarts and their mouthpiece to get ahead in the tag division. Now that the Almasy is underway, there’s a shot at the Universal title on the line. Is your mouthpiece going to be a problem for me? Because there’s a big difference between Minion the Imp distracting someone from the apron and Jase’s Wheeled Warrior bludgeoning someone with an oxygen tank.

Bader is stuck on factory reset. A shadow falls over Snow’s eyes as he tilts his hooded head forward.

Hessian: So what’s it going to be? Are we going to run it back clean? Or do I have to put my hands on your buddy to where he needs that wheelchair for real?

Bader steals a microphone from an unsuspecting Angelica Brooks.

Rexton William Bader: …Exactly who in the fuck IS this guy?

Angelica Brooks steals her microphone back from an unsuspecting Rexton William Bader.

Angelica Brooks: That’s Jason Snow’s opponent next week in the Almasy!

The audience pops at the prospect of another bloodbath.

Bader looks around as if someone in this ring has lost their mind. Brooks holds the microphone for him.

Rexton William Bader: THAT’S Hessian?

He looks back at Snow.

Rexton William Bader: THAT’S Hessian!? How in the fuck are you supposed to fight that guy? He’s fucking HUGE! Are you out of your mind.

Snow doesn’t move at all.

Bader sits there blinking for a moment.

Angelica Brooks: How is it possible that you didn’t know that? Really, Mr. Bade… …Mr. B… oh god i can’t even say that without it sounding like… hmm … … Really, Rexton, did you follow wrestling AT ALL before you stepped in to manage Jason Snow.

She holds the microphone out for Bader’s response, but Bader might not have even heard her.

Rexton William Bader: Wait a minute, wait a minute. I had no idea Snow had a match with that Hessian next week. I thought it was some other Hessian. This is all a big misunderstanding. Hessian. Hess. Can I call you Hess? As long as I’ve got you here, why don’t we talk business? I think we could do much, much better as friends than enemies. Not that we’re enemies. No no no, please don’t think we’re enemies. Definitely not. But look look look.

Bader swipes the microphone from Brooks and holds a hand up to Hessian.

Rexton William Bader: I can help you. I can be an asset. Hell, look what I did for this guy’s career. Did you see him at UltraViolence? He beat two of the best EVEN THOUGH I MOST DEFINITELY STAYED IN MY WHEELCHAIR THE WHOLE TIME BECAUSE I AIN’T BEEN ABLE TO WALK SINCE 1991!

Boos, but no garbage, no wayward fans.

Hessian shakes his head, looking at Snow as if he’s not sure Snow is hearing all this, and maybe he’s not. Snow looks like a statue in white again.

Rexton William Bader: Think about it. The two of you together. With your SIZE, and his, well, whatever it is he brings to the table, the two of you could dominate this entire organization. Especially with me by your side. You know, once upon a time, I was well on my way to being the best wrestler in the history of the sport. The Master, they called me. Rexton “The Master” Bader. [Mastah Badah] The three of us together, we’d be unstoppable. We’d be, we’d be, we’d be INDESTR–

Hessian: Enough.

Rexton William Bader: –UCTIBLE!

Hessian: ENOUGH.

Bader takes a triumphant breath as he clams up. Hessian starts to back up to the ropes, shaking his head again.

Hessian: Cut the BS. If you knew anything about this place you’d know I already have a second, and he’s not gonna take kindly to you cutting in on his business.

He turns his attention to Snow as he prepares to exit the ring.

Hessian: I’ve said my piece. If you insist on holding your tongue then I’m gonna tell you straight one last time.

He gestures towards Bader once more.

Hessian: He shows up ringside for our match? I won’t be held responsible for what happens.

Bader casts his arms out again as if pleading for someone to explain what he’s done wrong.

Hessian: See you in two weeks.

The giant skirts the top rope and drops to the floor as “Kingdom of the Worm” starts to play and he makes his exit, leaving Snow in the ring with Bader squawking at him as he regards his opponent with narrowed eyes.

ReVival moves on.

The camera fades in on the Red Army locker room, a space unmistakably claimed by Ivan Stanislav. A large, custom-built desk stands prominently in the center, adorned with a bust of Lenin flanked by Soviet and Russian flags. Pictures of former Soviet leaders (and of course Vladimir Putin) hang along the walls while even a radio plays some sort of old Soviet military march in the corner. The atmosphere is one of disciplined order, a stark contrast to the typical chaos that swirls around any ReVival show.

Ivan stands in front of his desk, commanding the attention of the Red Army with his sheer presence. Beside him, Alexei Ruslan simmers with intensity, his expression fierce and unblinking. The two form the first line of defense, positioned closest to the door.

Just behind them, Randall Schwartz and Kenny Freeman flank the desk on either side, a second tier of backup, alert and at attention.

Farthest back, near the wall, Arina Timofeyevna stands nervously, her eyes darting as she anticipates what might happen next. At her side, Speedy Riggs offers quiet reassurance, his easy posture and calm smile a soft contrast to the tension in the room.

Ivan surveys his Army with a stern but resolute gaze before growling.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrades, our alliance with Poor Whoresmen has had challenges, but we must remember unity and strength are our guiding principles. Just as nations of original Warsaw Pact relied upon strength of largest member, the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic…

The name short-circuits Randall, who silently mouths the words, trying to piece it together for the rest of Ivan’s speech.

Ivan Stanislav: …to keep them in line, so too will the Red Army ensure that order is maintained. We will rectify the irregularities of the past, and ensure that together, the Whoresaw Pact will batter down PRIME’s door and bring good will and unity to all! Carry yourself to highest standard. Despite Dawkins being absent, and Rose nursing her injuries, we are still a unified front!

Stanislav turns to face the door, hands on his hips. Beside him, Alexei checks his wristwatch. From the back of the room, Arina wrings her hands and stares toward the door, anxiety etched across her face.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.

Then, the opening regale of “Jesus is Just Alright” by the Doobie Brothers can be heard faintly outside the door.

Doo da doo doo doo
Do da doo doo
Do da doo doo doo doo doo doo

The door flings open. Smoke machines begin to fill the room with smoke.

Then, they enter.

Rob Williams.

Anna Daniels.

Fred Dick.

Daytona goddang Diamonds.

They do a brief choreographed number that involves line dancing, kicking their feet, and downright majestic twirls. Halfway through, Daytona grabs Fred Dick by the neck and lifts him so high in the air that he just about scrapes his head on the ceiling.

Fred Dick: WHAT THE HELL DAYTONER?

Jesus is just alright with me!
Jesus is just alright, oh yeah!

Daytona Diamonds: It’s a dominance play, Freddy! We gots to show these Commies that we ain’t soft! Trust me! It’s the only thing they understand!

Fred Dick: I don’t understand!

Daytona Diamonds: You ain’t gotta!

Jesus is just alright with me!
Jesus is just alright!

And just as The Doobie Brothers reach their fever pitch, the… uh… Performance Enhanced Rhinestone Cowboy chokeslams the shit out of Fred Dick. Splat! Right on the ground!

Fred Dick: Ooooooooh FUG!!

The music cuts abruptly.

An awkward silence fills the room.

Anna Daniels does sarcastic jazz hands.

Daytona Diamonds: C’mon! Get back up, Freddy! You’re the Intense Champion now, ain’tcha?! Don’t let ‘em see your pain!

Fred Dick dutifully rises to his feet, a little bit woozy but no worse for wear. Before he can gather his bearings, Daytona’s hand is back around his neck and he’s lifted into the air all over again, kicking his feet as The Rhinestone Cowboy holds him high, staring across the room at The Red Army.

Daytona Diamonds: Howdy, y’all. Or, as they say in Moscow, mazel tov.

…and Fred Dick comes crashing back down with another chokeslam.

Fred writhes around on the ground, speaks through grit teeth.

Fred Dick: That was awesome, ‘Toner… really… dope, man. It was dope. Unhinged? Maybe, maybe not. Who am I to make that call?

Fred climbs back up to his feet. Arches his back a little. Stares at Alexei. Licks his lips.

Throughout the entire spectacle, Ruslan staaaaaares up at Ivan with a disgusted scowl on his face. Finally, he looks back at the group and narrows one eye and mutters in Russian.

Alexei Ruslan: Похоже, Даймондс нашел секретную русскую сыворотку силы. (“Looks like Diamonds found the secret Russian strength serum.”)

Ivan chuckles sardonically and lets it melt into a grunt, keeping his hands placed squarely on his hips.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrade Diamonds… welcome back from touring bulwark of communism in Asia. You look like you have been eating well, eh?

Ivan offers the slightest of grins, barely visible beneath his bushy beard. Ruslan’s eyes dart between Ivan and the Whoresemen. Arina looks like she’s going to pass out.

Daytona Diamonds: Oh honey, I’ve been livin’ off peking duck and wantons the size of your fuckin’ head! S’how I got these muscles here, y’see?!

On cue and without hesitation, Daytona begins to flex his arms, the peaks of his biceps something like a fleshy Mount Everest, covered in veiny webbing. It would almost be off-putting if it wasn’t so damn awe-inspiring

Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t no Communist, but I’ll be goddanged if them boys over there ain’t don’t know a little somethin’ ‘bout buildin’ a monolith! Efficient, ain’t they?! Look at this, Ivan! I’m ‘bout as big as you are! Go on, Alexei! You can touch ‘em! Go on! Touch my fuckin’ pecs!

Ruslan adjusts his tie and responds flatly. If Ivan is impressed, he’s not showing it.

Alexei Ruslan: No.

Daytona shrugs his shoulders, only mildly offended as he pulls out his phone, holding it out in selfie mode as he continues to flex, admiring all those fabulous muscles. Ivan clears his throat once more and straightens his back slightly.

Ivan Stanislav: Efficiency is, indeed, far better in Asia and certain areas of Europe, as opposed to the West. You need not be a communist to admit such things, Daytona…

Ivan grunts and snorts through his nostrils.

Ivan Stanislav: Now, you have been absent for some time, Daytona. There has been great many things that have happened in your absence. One of which was an agreement between The Red Army and The Whoresemen to work together or, at very least, to not get in each faction’s way when it comes to tearing down PRIME. I assume one of you let Diamonds know this?

Daytona peeks up from his phone mid-pose, his massive traps doing this thing where they swallow the rest of his neck and make his jawline look downright ridiculous.

Daytona Diamonds: That so…? First I’m hearin’ ‘bout it! Y’all been wheelin’ and dealin’ without me?!

Ivan slowly scans his eyes across the rest of the assembled Whoresemen.

Anna Daniels: Didn’t know where you were hiding. Saw an opportunity and we took it. Strength in numbers and all that jazz.

Cue another round of sarcastic jazz hands.

Fred Dick: I ain’t no snitch, Ivan. I ain’t said nothin’… Nyaaaaah, I’m just kiddin’. I kinda sorta… shall we say, “forgotz” about the agreement. But then I was reminded by Bo-banner. Y’know. After Rob skrate up BRAINED ya boy with a steel chur.

Ivan narrows his eye and stares at Fred. He’s still putting out fires in Russia after that awards ceremony.

Ivan Stanislav: What?

Arina chimes in from the back, meekly, holding her phone.

Arina Timofeyevna: Er… Starshy Praporshchik. I translate on phone. “I do not tattle tale. No I am kidding. Ha ha. I, how you say, forgot about agreement. But I was reminded by Comrade Ms. Daniels. You know. After Rob bludgeoned our comrade with chair of steel.”

She then does her best to fade into the wall while Ivan and Alexei, in unison, turn to look at her, and then, in unison, look back at the Whoresemen. Stanislav’s voice takes on a more exasperated tone.

Ivan Stanislav: Well… what are you going to do about it?

On cue, Alexei produces a recorder and plays it. A recording of Anna Daniels’ voice from ReVival 66 rings out.

Anna Daniels: “We stay out of your way and you stay out of ours.”

Ivan spreads his arms wide, grunting once as he continues to nurse injuries from UltraViolence.

Ivan Stanislav: You cost a member of my Red Army the Alias Title. I would say you got in our way! We had agreement!

Rob Williams: I do apologize for that Starsky, but I’m on a higher calling. My friend, there are things that matter more in this life than pacts. I am on a mission to right the karmic balance of our world. Can you imagine the stress that puts on a man like me?

Daytona stops posing just for long enough to nudge Fred. He leans over, whispering almost conspiratorially.

Daytona Diamonds: Ay. Freddy. The fuck’s up with Rob? S’all this hippy dippy bullshit ‘bout? He start snortin’ patchouli while I was fuckin’ ‘giner ‘cross Chiner?

Fred Dick: Buddy if I could figure out what’s up with that dipshit’s brain, I’d be rich as hell scissorin’ hot benches in Bali.

Rob Williams: You mean cutting lasagna?

Fred winks at Rob.

Stanislav’s eyes ignite as he sets his jaw. He looks past Rob to Anna Daniels.

Ivan Stanislav: I didn’t take you at your word, Anna, and trust you only to have your tag partner attack one of my army members. Was this on purpose?!

He almost sounds betrayed… and furious. Probably more furious, but also betrayed. Ruslan slides his hands behind his back.

Rob Williams: Well, if we’re talking what’s fair in love and war there’s the little claim of me intentionally t-boning your boy. Tit for tat? Look, I apologized. That’s more than most have gotten out of me. If you need to make it right some other way, feel free – everyone knows Rob Williams is nothing if not fair and equitable.

Hearing all of this, Anna–forever the exhausted work wife–sighs and looks at Ivan.

Anna Daniels: To answer your question, no. We don’t believe it was on purpose. Rob’s crazy, not stupid. But he did do a pretty damn stupid thing so…

She smacks Rob in the back of the head.

Anna Daniels: Apologies don’t mean much without action, dickhead. Which is probably why we’ve been summoned here, eh? We’re betting you’ve reached the scratching of backs part of the pact.

The Muse shrugs.

Anna Daniels: Could be wrong though.

This moment of tension is eventually brought to at least a pause by Kenny Freeman, of all people, who raises his hand as if in the middle of a class trying to get the teacher’s attention. Realizing after a quick stare from Ivan that he is in fact a grown man, Kenny chimes in.

Kenny Freeman: I can tell we’re all still feeling it after the past month or thereabouts, but for what it’s worth, the Masters of the Moscowverse are willing to extend an olive branch to the Whoresmen. Randall, get the box.

Randall gives a nod of acknowledgement before rushin’ (ha!) over to the nearby wall, picking up a comically large cardboard box. After nearly throwing his back out, the Entertainer wisens up and pushes the box toward Kenny with his foot. Freeman shakes his head at the sight before opening the box to reveal…a Food-O-Matic 3000. He starts to approach Rob with a box, but Williams just stares at him, leading to Kenny approaching each of the Whoresmen with their own food processor and yielding the same result each time.

Kenny Freeman: Right, I’ll just uh…leave this last one here for now. Enjoy.

He sets the box down near Fred’s feet before returning to his position near Randall.

Fred picks up the Food-O-Matic 3000 box and examines it.

Fred Dick: Do you fug it?

Daytona Diamonds: Hah! Go on then, Freddy! Put’cher dick on in the– oh wait, nope, forgot. Been a while, y’know?

Anna stops shaking her Food-O-Matic and tries desperately to get the image of a robot humping a washing machine out of her head.

At first, it sounds like maybe the air conditioning kicked on, as there’s a whistling wind that slowly grows louder and louder as time goes on. But no, viewer it’s not the AC. It’s Ivan Stanislav’s breathing, whistling through his nose hairs. Just when it reaches hurricane force, he booms.

Ivan Stanislav: ENOUGH!

He levels his finger towards Williams.

Ivan Stanislav: You attacked a member of the Whoresaw Pact, and no apology will suffice! Had one of my people done such a thing, they would have been through a brick wall by now! Either one of you pay in blood in some way or another, or I will see to it myself!

Anna Daniels: Okay.

She steps up towards Ivan.

Anna Daniels: We made the pact. This fuckup’s on us. It’s only fair. Beat us up.

The Russian Bear glowers down at Anna. Ruslan glances up at Ivan curiously. Stanislav growls.

Ivan Stanislav: This is on him, not you.

Anna doesn’t move.

Anna Daniels: And yet here we are anyway. Shit, we’ve been taking lumps this long. What’s a few more for the cause?

Ivan lifts his eyes past Anna towards Williams.

Ivan Stanislav: You allow your tag partner to take punishment for you?

Rob Williams: I’ll allow you to suck my… *Rob puts his hand to his head* Goddamnit, Ivan – I am trying to be a different man. Now I told you, if you feel you’re owed some comeuppance, take it. There ain’t shit between us but air and opportunity.

Rob leads with the chin, literally and figuratively. Is Ivan such an emotional man that he can’t see the importance of a man on a journey and put aside his own hurt feelings about a perceived slight (not even directed at him)?

That’s all well and good, but Rob’s tag team partner looks at him like he’s an idiot then looks back at the Army at large.

Anna Daniels: Alright, we’re wrong. He is a dumbass, but our point stands. We failed, alright? We were in our own head with our own bullshit and didn’t tighten the leash on him. It’s as much on us as it is on him. Maybe even more so. So pick your poison. Hell, if you have to, whip both of our asses. Whatever makes it square.

Ruslan seems totally on board with this, but Ivan crosses his arms over his barrel chest and narrows his right eye.

Ivan Stanislav: Hm… despite mistakes, we are all in this together. You both…

Ivan motions his finger between Anna and Rob.

Ivan Stanislav: Owe Red Army a debt. And we will collect some other time. It does none of us any good to risk injuring either of you. We all have Almasy Tournament to win.

Ruslan looks sad. Arina looks relieved. Speedy seems curious about this Food-O-Matic 3000 business. Ivan clicks his tongue.

Ivan Stanislav: Do you understand? You owe the Red Army. When the time comes, I expect to collect. Da? You do what I need you to do.

Anna sighs.

Anna Daniels: We help you and wherever way it goes, this little debt is paid, yeah? No funny business should things go awry. No backing out with an “ummm, actually”. A straight transaction. Because you know exactly how this place works.

This makes Ivan grin wide and his mood immediately brightens. Alexei follows suit. Meanwhile, Arina finally relaxes and pulls a large bottle of vodka out of the desk. Speedy produces shot glasses. Daytona Diamonds, shit eating grin spread wide across his face, crosses the room and throws one of those behemoth arms around Alexei’s neck.

Daytona Diamonds: Now, see?! Ain’t no use bickerin’ and bitchin’! Look at us, gettin’ along and sortin’ our shit out like a buncha fuckin’ adults! Hot damn! PRIME’s done changed for the better, ain’t it?! Maybe this lil partnership of ours ain’t so bad after all, huh A-Baby?

And with The Whoresaw Pact all smiles, like any face alliance should be, we head elsewhere. ‘

Ring. Vince Howard. Stuff.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall…

One fan in the crowd begins to reply with “One fall,” but he’s hit in the neck with a poison sleep dart and topples to the ground. Three enemigos who had been laying in wait quietly drag him out into the parking lot where he will wake up and realize the error of his ways.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…

The arena’s lights go out, and the fans erupt in anticipation. Soon their energy is rewarded as the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear:

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

And he’s not alone.

Just a few feet behind him is a fresh-faced lad, barely twenty-one, with a messy mop of dark hair on top of his head. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his Colton Academy jacket. The jacket is unbuttoned, showing off his University of Evansville t-shirt (Go Purple Aces!) He seems a little overwhelmed as he looks out into the sea of humanity in the stands. This kid’s been in the business for a long time…but never like this.

Welcome to the show, Blake Colton.

Nick Stuart: Look at that! Nate is joined by his youngest sibling, Blake Colton! We haven’t seen him since–

Richard Parker: Since Ivan Stanislav broke him in half last year.

Nick Stuart: Might want to think of a more sensitive way to put that, Richard. Just in case they come over here.

The New Diamond pauses at the edge of the platform, motioning for his brother to join him. Eventually Blake takes the hint, and big bro throws an arm around little bro’s shoulder, and they walk to the ring together. The New Diamond seems in much better spirits than he’s been in a long time, smiling and slapping hands as the Colton boys (not the Lads, they’ve been thrown out already) walk to the ring.

Vince Howard: Accompanied to the ring by Blake Colton!

RAAH!

Modest pop for the kid.

Vince Howard: He hails from Evansville, Indiana… he weighs in at two hundred and forty pounds…the NEW DIAMOND… NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!!

When they arrive, Nate slips off his ring jacket and hands it to Blake, who he then directs toward the timekeeper’s table. While the family’s youngest heads to his assigned position, the eldest heads for the ring.

He climbs the steps, wipes his feet on the apron, and enters the ring throug the top and middle ropes. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans.

Richard Parker: Really don’t know what Colton’s thinking here. The last time his kid brother came to a show, he got hospitalized. You don’t think the Glues would jump at the chance to do it again? Especially with the bad blood between the family and FLAMBO…and now Hanlon.

Nick Stuart: You might be right, Richard. But by the same token, the Coltons have to show that they’re not afraid–in the ring, or out of it.

After one last point toward his little brother, Nate shifts to the task at hand…and it’s like flipping a switch.

No more smile. No more good mood.

Just that icy stare.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh shit you guys I just realized that I have to put together an entrance for someone who is very good at the entrance thing and there is BIG PRESSURE (when I drive) to get this right.

“Love is Blindness” by Jack White hits the arena speakers.

Vince Howard: His opponent… hailing from Phoenix, Arizona… he weighs in tonight at one hundred and eighty-five pounds! He is one half of the PRIME tag team champions! HE IS… JOOOOOOOEEEEE FONNNNNTAAAAAAIIIINNNNEEEE!!!

Just like at UltraViolence, Joe Fontaine is flanked both by fabby and FLAMBERGE. The former because it is his job to carry the jolf bags and provide… umm… whatever other services a fabby is responsible for. Mostly taking up space and being in the way. Like a cat who insists on walking in between your feet when you’re just trying to go to the bathroom. Then you have to shoo the cat away while trying not to pee, all the while trying to remember that this is a tiny animal who really just wants your attention.

So just like that, minus any of the redeeming qualities that a pet has.

FLAMBERGE is here because Nate Colton is the biiiiiiiiiitch, so he has a vested interest in the outcome. Some people make their investments in stocks, bonds, and commodities. FLAMBERGE makes his in “the eternal grudge against this one fuckin’ guy in particular.” And if you look that up on NASDAQ, you’ll see it trading under the KYS symbol.

KYS stands for “Kiss, You Shitheads,” in case you were curious.

ANYWAY…

Fontaine hands over his championship belt to referee Ashley Barlow, who takes a moment to remind both men about what’s at stake here tonight, as if they don’t already know. Pfft. Referees, am I right?

DING DING

Colton’s expression is all business as he moves towards the center of the ring, but Fontaine ducks between the top and middle ropes to stall. He shouts something at fabby, who holds up Joe’s half of the Tag Team Championships and begins shining it, albeit under duress. Beside him, FLAMEBERGE holds his own half of the titles, and he’s also got his shine game on lock. Yes, both of the tag belts are currently being shined at Nate Colton.

Menacingly.

Nick Stuart: A reminder to everyone watching at home that this first round match in the Almasy tournament carries with it a bounty. A victory here for Nate Colton would earn him a shot at those championships that both Joe Fontaine and FLAMBERGE are carrying.

Richard Parker: I wonder who would like that match more, Colton or FLAMBERGE.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think those two need a reason to fight, Richard. At this point I think we all need to accept that this is one of those rivalries that is never going to end.

To punctuate the situation, Fontaine snaps his fingers with both hands and immediately transitions into a double finger guns at the ever-shiny belts. Boy, aren’t they shiny.

Alas, Colton is not in the mood for bullshit, no matter how much or how little bullshit there is, and this match already has the makings of being burdened with judicious amounts of bullshittery and other bullshit-adjacent nonsense. That’s why he uncorks a burst of speed and forces Fontaine back into a lock-up in the corner. It’s the sort of thing that prompts Ashley Barlow to try and intervene, but she doesn’t get very far.

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton backing Fontaine into the corner, and oh my…

See, there’s a size discrepancy at play here. Nate Colton has 7 inches (heyoooo) and almost 60 pounds of taught, midwest muscle on Joe Fontaine. All that is to say that Joe Fontaine doesn’t have much say in being yanked out of the corner, though he does try to fight back.

Right away, Colton puts that amateur background to use, and what follows is a technical flurry of grappling, transitions, and throws. First, he shifts his balance and his grip – still maintaining the hold while allowing him the opportunity to position himself behind Fontaine in a rear waistlock. Joe tries to get an arm in and break the New Diamond’s grip, but he’s lifted up off of his feet, turned, and brought down chest-first onto the canvas.

Nick Stuart: This is a different gear out of Nate Colton tonight, fans.

Richard Parker: Cool. Can he shift it into reverse and back up out of here? Maybe? Pretty please?

And he doesn’t let go.

He gets a steady base beneath him, both feet planted firmly on the ground, and then he brings Joe Fontaine up by force. He also smashes Fontaine back down into the canvas by force with a hard back suplex. The impact causes him to finally release his grip, and Fontaine rolls to the outside of the ring.

Richard Parker: You know what I love, Nick?

Nick Stuart: Do I have to answer that?

Richard Parker: Just go with me.

Nick Stuart: Don’t make me guess.

Richard Parker: I love how tight the Glue boys are.

Nick Stuart: O…kay?

Richard Parker: I really just appreciate the way they…

Nick Stuart: I swear to god if this is about to be a pu-

Richard Parker: Stick together. OW! Hey! What was that for?

Nick Stuart: You know what you did.

A quick strategy session with FLAMBERGE and fabby follows. Well, not so much fabby, because the furniture does not get to have the opinions. So really it’s a strat sesh’ with FLAMBO, and fabby just happens to be in the same zip code.

At last, and after a little bit of counting by referee Ashley Barlow, a plan is hatched. Fontaine slides into the ring, but fabby is also on the ring apron, crouched down, and he’s trying to very obviously hide a jolf club behind the ring. Nate pivots in that direction, momentarily allowing himself to be distracted by the weapon. His knee is going to be sore tomorrow as a result.

A chopblock from Fontaine takes the bigger Colton down to one knee, and then Smooth Joe Cool begins unloading a barrage of hurried offense as he rapid-fires a series of stomps and kicks at Colton’s base.

It also helps keep Colton’s head at an easier height to reach for what comes next.

Joe Fontaine: Kiiiii-YA! HYA! HhhhuuuuuuuaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaa…

Ah yes, karate noises. It’s the most X-Pac shit ever. The spinning roundhouse that follows is no joke though, as The Famed 45 Days Purge connects flush on Colton’s jaw and knocks him to the ground.

Colton doesn’t get a chance to recover, and what comes next might actually be worse than getting kicked in the head. I know, I know. You’re thinking, “Hey, Matt, how could that be possible? The head is where the brain lives, and Nate Colton needs that in order to think and live and all that other stuff.”

Well…

There’s injury, which a kick to the face can surely create. But there’s also insult, which is more the point of Fontaine’s next move. He calls it the Wang Ten, and it involves him using his own crotch as a weapon of war to deliver blunt force trauma. By hitting them in the face. With his own bits ‘n bobs.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that right now is a bad time to be Nate Colton’s face.

Richard Parker: Hey, I was gonna make that joke!

Sorry.

Richard Parker: It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll come up with something else later.

Nick Stuart: What are you talking about?

Richard Parker: Uhhh, just thinking out loud about how much it must suck to be Nate Colton’s face right now.

Why you little plagiarising shit, I oughtta…

Oh right. Match.

The thing about using your own groin to cock-torpedo another person in the face is that it’s not exactly a move that’s done without the risk of some self-inflicted damage, because faces aren’t known for being soft, forgiving, cushiony surfaces to crash into. The most has its impact on Colton, but Fontaine comes up a little limp from it himself, and no this is not a dick joke.

Fontaine gets Colton into position as if the smaller man is getting ready to hit a piledriver, but there’s a bit of business that needs attending first. Joe throws his head back, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts into the air.

Joe Fontaine: MEMPHIS DEATH CERTIFICATE!

He is immediately back body dropped by Nate Colton. And I mean that dude gets launched. You ever see one of those clips where a person is on an inflatable crash pad or some shit, and then a bigger dude jumps onto the same crash pad from way up high and the first guy just gets sent? It’s like that. Nate Colton out here starting his own space program for little shits.

Fontaine is quick to get back to his feet, and the frustration on Colton’s face is palpable. In an attempt to regain his advantage, Fontaine springboards off the second rope, turns in mid-air, and tries to drive both of his knees into Colton’s face.

Nick Stuart: Math Kill-no!

The New Diamond catches Fontaine in flight, adjusts his grip, and spikes Dick Puncher the Invincible with an exploder suplex.

Richard Parker: Alas, math shall dare to live another day. And boo Nate Colton for allowing it to happen. Boo, Nate. Boo. Let the math die!

Nick Stuart: I will never understand the whole math thing.

Richard Parker: What? Seriously?

Nick Stuart: It just… doesn’t add up.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s because… Oh. Hey, you’re not allowed to pun me back!

Fontaine starts crawling towards the ropes where fabby is currently futzing with the jolf bag, most likely looking for the least conspicuous jolf club for Joe to use to hit his opponent about the head, neck, or groin regions. He doesn’t get there in time.

Colton straddles Fontaine’s back and tries to lock in the Colton Clutch, but the Prince of Jolf is a squirmy lad who does not wish to be clutched by any Coltons on this fine Friday evening. Remember that size advantage that we mentioned earlier? Still relevant!

Unable to get the hold locked in, Colton begins unleashing a barrage of crossface strikes along the bridge of Fontaine’s nose. The first strike is sharp, and Fontaine finds the world suddenly blurry. He’s not crying, you guys. It’s just that sometimes the ol’ eyeballs start swimming when you get hit in the nose. Totally normal biological response.

And then there’s FLAMBERGE, friendly Frenchman that he is, casually making his way over to the timekeeper’s area from where Blake Colton watches his older brother. You know, casually. The way that some snakes who secret have big fuckin’ teeth and a whole ass-load of venom look like they’re casually grinning when they slither and slink their way through the tall grass in search of juicy fieldmice to eat or juicier hiker angles to nibble on. Like that.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE getting dangerously close to Blake Colton…

To his credit, FLAMBO doesn’t get physical with the younger Colton, but what follows are a barrage of insults that really only make sense if you know what a fabby is.

For the record, he said that Nate brought his own furniture, but that Colton furniture is cheap like it is “half the fabby.” And while he may be “half the fabby,” the Coltons are very much “still all the biiiiiiiiiitch.” That’s ‘bitch’ with ten I’s. The way Christ intended.

Richard Parker: What a horrible thing to say to someone!

Nick Stuart: We can agree on that, Richard.

Richard Parker: Calling someone half a fabby. The outrage! It’s a scandal! I don’t know what the fabby-to-Colton exchange rate is, Nick, but you’ve got to think that one fabby is worth more than two Coltons.

Nick Stuart: I take it all back.

Richard Parker: He’s got to be worth at least ten Coltons. Maybe twelve. It’s hard to keep track of the ever-changing market for fabbies in these challenging times. Seriously, have you seen what the value of the Canadian fabby is like these days?

Nick Stuart: (deadpan) No.

Richard Parker: I think they call it the loonie.

Nick Stuart: That means something else.

Richard Parker: Ah, my mistake. The foonie, then.

Nick Stuart: Ugh.

Meanwhile, yes, Nate Colton has become aware that his younger brother is being harrowed by his long-time rival, and he’s on his way to do something about it.

Richard Parker: Anyway what I’m trying to say is that we’re in a dire socioeconomic situation right now, and even though fabbies aren’t worth a whole helluva lot, they’re at least worth more than two Coltons.

Nick Stuart: I hate you sometimes. I hope you know that.

Nate grabs FLAMBERGE and pulls him away. I am trying very hard to not describe this exchange in an erotic way, and I need you all to know how goddamn challenging that is. Give me a medal, because this shit is Herculean.

So yeah. Words are exchanged. Some light shoving happens. Ashley Barlow comes outside to ruin the vibe and cockblock everyone.

Nate and FLAMBO do not kiss, and everyone is very, very disappointed.

Especially me.

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow should eject FLAMBERGE from ringside. He has no business being out here.

Richard Parker: Au contraire, Neek.

Yes, that’s how he pronounces it, because Richard Parker does not speak French but dammit he’s gonna try to sneak in little language nuances when he can. Even if they’re wrong.

Richard Parker: I saw his managers’ licence earlier today. It looked very official because it was on that fancy yellow paper, and it had a big stamp on it, and the word “Manager” was spelled with an extra E and a little squiggle. I think because it was French.

Barlow does manage to get FLAMBERGE to back off, but the commotion leaves an opening for Fontaine to reassert himself, and reassert himself he does. Mostly by sneaking out of the ring in a spot where Nate Colton would be blind to it, creeping up, and delivering the lowest of blows to the New Diamond’s precious gemstones.

With Nate stunned and the referee erstwhile distracted by the Lizard King, Fontaine takes the opportunity to send the New Diamond into the ring post face-first.

Definitely won’t be any kissin’ now.

WHISH

That’s the sound the 8-iron makes as it sails through the air. It’s not completely aerodynamic, what with being a chair and all. Also it’s bent to shit, and that’s before it gets rudely introduced to Nate Colton’s back.

The New Diamond winces, and Fontaine takes the opportunity to roll him back into the ring after commanding fabby hide the evidence of the wrestling crime that has just been committed. You’d think that given the frequency that they happen that chair shots might be downgraded to a misdemeanor, or maybe voted into legality by the townspeople, but nah. Still a DQ if you get caught, so better to hide it.

With Colton down on the inside, Joe gets both hands on the top rope and leaps.

Nick Stuart: It’s The Aerial Maneuver Dedicated To The Memory Of “Mr. Extinction Level Event” Arnold Killmore Who Isn’t Dead But I’m Just Thinking About Him Right Now While I’m Naming This Move Okay Thanks Here Comes The Move Now!

Richard Parker: Why are you thinking of Arnold Killmore?

Nick Stuart: I’m not. That’s just what the move is called.

Richard Parker: But you just said…

Nick Stuart: It’s what the move is called!

The move in question being a springboard shooting star, and it connects with the prone Colton. Since FLAMBERGE is no longer providing a very French distraction for Ashley Barlow, she’s free to make the count.

1

2

But it’s not enough to hold Nate down.

Richard Parker: I just realized that we haven’t seen a single dab from Joe Fontaine this entire match.

Richard, you fool!

While Colton starts to get back to his feet, Fontaine takes two steps towards the ropes, leaps, and then springboards backwards towards Nate. He pivots in the air and connects with a gamengiri that connects with Colton’s forehead.

He might have been dabbing the entire time.

Fontaine shoots over for a cover, but Colton rolls towards the ropes and pounds the canvas in frustration. Instead of his original plan, Joe snaps off a superkick.

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton just caught Joe Fontaine’s foot!

It’s true. He did.

But then something strange happens.

Nick Stuart: Colton keeping hold of Fontaine’s foot.

Richard Parker: What the hell is he doing?

Nick Stuart: Duck-under keeping the ankle trapped… He’s got Fontaine’s arm… His other leg… First leg again…

Richard Parker: I am so confused right now.

Nick Stuart: This can only be one thing. He’s setting him up for the Miracle Chaos Annihilation Suplex!

Richard Parker: Wait, what?! Oh man I don’t think I have my miracle chaos defense helmet…

Somehow, Fontaine is able to get a foot against Colton’s chest, which he uses to springboard off of and out of the hold. Good thing, too. Had the move connected it would have annihilated not only the miracle chaos of Joe Fontaine, but also the first five rows of the crowd, and they would have all been reduced to miracle neutral. Or, in the worst case scenario, miracle lawful.

Not content to simply let his opponent get away, and also totally over the bullshit, Nate drives his shoulder into Joe Fontaine like a goddamn battering ram. Angry arms trap the tag champion once again, and Fontaine finds himself the victim of a series of moves that aren’t quite suplexes, aren’t quite throws, and carry all the force of a spiked volleyball slamming against a parquet floor.

A moment ago Joe Fontaine had the good fortune and wherewithal to escape one move, but now he finds himself in a situation where he has to do it again, only this time it’s the one that Nate Colton knows the best. The one that was passed down from his father as part of his training.

Nick Stuart: Colton Clutch!! Nate Colton has that move locked in, and Joe Fontaine has nowhere to go!

The champion struggles like his life depends on it, because his future in this tournament certainly does. He swings his free arm and kicks out with both of his legs, but Colton will not let go.

Nick Stuart: Fabby up on the apron now!

Richard Parker: It’s fabby, Nick. We’ve been over this before. You gotta lowercase that when you say it.

Ashley Barlow cocks her arm back, winding up for the big ejection.

Nick Stuart: NO! FLAMBERGE! FLAMBERGE! FLAMBERGE just hit Nate Colton with that title belt!

It’s an angry, violent swing. The sort of malice you reserve for the people who have hurt you the deepest. And it is all directed at Nate Colton. Joe Fontaine is barely able to get his own head out of the way of Le Protagoniste’s attack.

Colton releases the hold, his own arms limp as he crumples to the mat.

In the chaos, Joe Fontaine covers his opponent and shouts for the referee.

1

Nick Stuart: Not like this…

2

Nick Stuart: Not like this, goddammit…

3!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, advancing to the next round… JOOOOOOOOE FON-TAAAAAAAAINE!

Richard Parker: Glue to round 2, baby! Let’s go!

Referee Barlow raises Fontaine’s hand before he slides out of the ring to join his partner and his furniture in celebration. FLAMBERGE stares daggers into the ring as he once again polishes his belt, this time making sure to also clean off the blood spatter that has gathered there.

Ashley Barlow leans down to check on the status of Nate Colton, and only then does she see the cut that has opened up on his forehead.

As Glue celebrates their way up the ramp, we fade elsewhere.

Prerecorded.

We cut to the Arena’s Parking lot where The Legend himself is making his way to the back entrance.

We hear the rev of a superbike offscreen, which of course means.

Sebastian Gold: Hey! Old man!

Sebastian grabs Rob by the shoulder and turns him around.

Sebastian Gold: What the fuck is wrong with you! I needed to beat Dawkins clean at Ultraviolence. What gave you the right to run in with that chair!

A great, toothy grin crosses The Legend’s face.

Rob Williams: Well goddamn, if it ain’t just the man I am looking for. How the fuck are you doing, kiddo?

Rob pulls a bewildered Gold in for a hug. An actual hug.

Rob Williams: Man, you smell great. What is that? Soap?

Gold doesn’t return the hug, he can only stand there, in complete shock.

Sebastian Gold: Uh… yeah…lavender.

The hug continues. What the fuck is happening? Gold thinks.

Sebastian Gold: What the fuck is happening?

Rob Williams: I think we got off on the wrong foot. See, despite your stupid haircut and this ridiculous get up… you remind me of me. A much younger me, obviously. And it made me absolutely hate you. And if that weren’t bad enough, you held a mirror up and made me look at all of it. Charlotte, the drinking, my kid.

There’s still a particular sting to saying that. My kid. Was it his kid? By virtue of DNA, sure – but that was the entire tale of the tape.

Rob Williams: I did ya bad. Sure, you’re an emotional invalid, but your heart was in the right place. Look I didn’t intend to give Dawkins CTE or ruin your “clean win”. The spirit moved me. I owed you an amends and I paid my debt. We’re even now.

Rob backs up, holding onto Sebastian’s shoulders and holding him out arms length.

Rob Williams: Man I feel so much better.

Sebastian Gold: But…how…wha…

There’s so much here for Sebastian’s wrestler brain to handle that it almost short-circuits. His kid? A younger Rob?? Stupid haircut??? But one thing floats to the surface. He shakes the confusion out of his head.

Sebastian Gold: Hold on, you gave Dawkins CTE? That rumor was true; you actually hit Dawkins with your car??

A look resembling genuine hurt  crosses Rob’s face.

Rob Williams: Look, I’ll put a man through a flaming table or hit him with a chair, but I ain’t a bitch. I’m not sure if that was just Ruskie propaganda or what. But enough about that. If a guy put me through a flaming table, I’d sure as shit want another shot at him. Once this Almasy business is done, let’s run it back, hm?

Williams reaches up and taps Gold’s wrinkleless face with a playful slap.

Rob Williams: See you soon, kiddo.

Before Gold can process any of this lunacy, Williams swivels on the heels of his cowboy boots and walks away. He whistles “Keep My Skillet Good and Greasy”.

Gold watches him go in silent shock. When finally, he mutters under his breath.

Sebastian Gold: Run it back…

A small smile creeps over that wrinkless face.

Sebastian Gold: It’s on.

The Tarjay Center drops to a silence as the PRIMEtron flicks to life. The arena lights drop, ready for everyone to focus on the jumbo mega super screen to come to life. The most infamous words in wrestling history come over the darkness to bring our fans into the mindspace to watch.

Patiently?

PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
3 Days After UltraViolence

The beeps and blips of a quiet hospital room come over the air before the image of Crash, intubated, taking deep, desperate breaths with eyes shut. By his side is the lone warrior of his love, Violent Purple, with more meat on her bones and more awareness in her eyes. Her eyes scan his body, hoping for some sign of life, before dropping her head onto his hand.

BEEPBEEP BEEP BEEPBEEP BOOOOOOOOOOOO…

VP jerks back. She stands to her feet to call the whitecoats but, against her expectations, four doctors and two nurses rush in to assess the Hot Dog Hero. The commitment from this medical team is pretty damn impressive. They all look up.

Doctor Guy #1: Prep the dephib.

Nurse #2: Arming…

Doctor #3: We’re expecting to pull off a miracle here?

Nurse #2: CLEAR.

BZZZT

The monitors go into a more consistent beep of the boop. There’s life here. It’s deep down though and VP watches, helpless from behind the wall of medical angels. Greg walks in, grabbing her by the shoulder, which she finds the ability to let her guard down because, right now, she needs a shoulder to hide on.

Doctor #1: We’ve got a pulse, people.

Nurse number one looks at nurse two.

They meander and make sure Crash is still alive. Like a cloud in the plains, they fade away in a sequential fashion. Violent Purple leaves Greg’s side to join her fallen Hero. She grips his hand. Greg takes a few steps in and hands VP something he thinks could help bring Crash back to life.

Greg Davis: Try this. We gotta try everything we can to bring ‘im back in time for the Almasy.

VP shoves a hotdog in Crash’s hand. She wraps both of hers around it. She leans forward and noises come out as the last doctor exits the room. Greg gives her a double take.

BEEPBEEP BEEPBEEP BEEPBEEP

The monitors go nuts. VP jumps back, running away from his side to the door. Greg is right behind her. They both open their mouths to shout but cant get the words out. Words come from behind them, in a loud, very lively tone that only belongs to the Northern Light.

“CAN I SOME KETCHUP AND ONIONS?”

Sonja Cuchilla stands with her arms crossed, head tossing and turning to the side as she taps her index finger lightly against her chin.

Blaze Claymore (off screen): Well?

We whip pan (that’s a cinema term) to see Blaze decked out in a surprisingly unusual attire for the Main Event. Unlike his traditional red-on-white robe, suit, and glasses, he is adorned in a deep navy blue set of wrestling pants with an 8-pointed star design running the length of both legs.

Over his shoulder is a sparkling, full-feathered cloak in a deep, rich cyan color. And, of course, to fill out the mise-en-scène, he flashes a pearly-white smile framed by frosted white sunglasses.

If this were an audition, it would look like he was preparing to perform as the Snow Miser from “The Year Without Santa Claus” – except that for those with a trained eye would recognize he is actually representing his home state and flag with what some might say an inappropriate amount of flair.

Sonja claps her hands and smiles.

Sonja Cuchilla: Perfect! I know the crowd will love it — and what better way to set yourself apart and celebrate a return to the United States than by rejecting – and DEFEATING Communism by embracing the very thing that both America and Hollywood love.

Blaze Claymore: A great redemption story?

Sonja Cuchilla smirks and places her arms around Blaze’s neck.

Sonja Cuchilla: No, silly. Capitalism. What else?

Voice: Exactly!

Blaze and Sonja turn to see Klein, the manager/agent of the Pop Culture Phenoms hurriedly making his way over. He waves genially and extends an arm out toward Blaze.

At first the Main Event mistakes the gesture for a handshake, but then realizes there is a small, white card in his hand. Klein stands there, expecting Blaze to open it and read it.

Blaze waits… not saying anything at first, but then begins mumbling something under his breath, then – a gasp.

Blaze Claymore: Four pizzas for $20!? That’s a steal.

Klein rolls his eyes and gestures for Blaze to turn the card around, where the actual message is.

Blaze Claymore: Mr. Claymore… something something match…. something something potential… WAIT A MINUTE!

Sonja peers over Blaze’s shoulders and holds her hands to her mouth.

Klein: Speechless? Great. I don’t really like talking, but D asked me to give this to you. Said they’re going to use your match tonight as your audition. For what, I don’t know. They’re probably making some stupid movie again. They don’t really tell me anything and I’m too disinterested to ask.

Blaze looks up, confused.

Blaze Claymore: What do you mean auditio-

Suddenly, Blaze cocks his head as he sees D and Elise casually walking through the frame (aka the arena concourse). He notices and gives a slight wave while they just nod.

The D: Here’s lookin’ at you kid!

Blaze holds the card he just received to his chest like a love letter.

Blaze Claymore: They just Bogarted me… I think. That’s what that word means, right?

Klein gives a confused and dismissive side eye to Blaze and Sonja as Elise and the D quickly depart around a corner before Blaze can even respond.

Klein: Yeah. They do that. Good luck Blaze.

PCP’s manager exits the frame (also a movie term) as quickly and awkwardly as he appeared, leaving Blaze and Sonja to marvel over the business card and — seemingly — a casting call.

Blaze Claymore: Wow….

Sonja winks at Blaze and turns slightly toward the camera man she knows has been capturing these last few moments before flashing a smile.

Sonja Cuchilla: Come on, babe. Let’s go break a leg.

Blaze looks up, cocking an eyebrow.

Sonja Cuchilla: What is Ivan Stanislov if not a massive, angry, Russian Alligator?

Blaze smirks.

Blaze Claymore: I think you mean Crocodile.

Sophia places a hand to her head as we move ringside.

Nick Stuart: More tournament action coming up!

Richard Parker: Big match for Blaze. BIG!

Nick Stuart: Absolutely. Ivan Stanislav is a former two-time Universal Champion!

Richard Parker: No I mean BIG as in size! Ivan is 7’1”, four-hundred pounds!

Nick Stuart: Ummm, yeah. That’s obvious. Also that’s taking Vince’s job away from him, I’m sure he was just going to announce it.

Richard Parker: You don’t announce height, Nick. Ring announcers don’t do that. Besides, Howard goes into business for himself with that “ONE FALL!” nonsense. It’s almost like, sometimes, he’s being given a script by an entirely different writer.

Nick Stuart: Whatever you say.

Richard Parker: It’s my conspiracy theory. Maybe we’re all being written by someone else here and there. Maybe there’s a writer who should’ve written me as ENJOYING a Cancer Jiles match years ago.

Nick Stuart: What are you even talking about? (To the truck) Can we go to ringside and get this started, please?

Richard Parker: No, you’re right. Jiles is the worst thing in the world.

Stuart’s cry for help is granted, as Vince Howard stands in the middle of the squared circle.

Vince Howard: This match is a first round Almasy Tournament matchup! And it is for…

He pauses. He’s milking the cheers.

Vince Howard: ONE FALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: SEE!? See what I mean? Guy randomly goes into business for himself once a night!

Nick Stuart: …

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Hollywood, California… weighing one-hundred-eighty pounds… BLAZE CLAYMORE!

A familiar yet unexpected musical cue from “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” hits the PA system with massive percussion filling the arena. Instead of a wide shot we find ourselves backstage, looking out toward the arena as a robed figure stands – framed in shadow.

Violins begin to lift into the scene briefly before we hear the sound of a triangle being struck and we cut back to the arena … watching as Sonja Cuchilla, Blaze’s valet and partner, holds a microphone in her hand and begins to sing.

Ahhhh ahhhh aaaaaaahahaaahaaahh.

Richard Parker: What a beautiful voice.

Does Richard mean it, or is he sarcastic? While not quite on pitch, it is also not embarrassing either. Sonja tries her best to not have her voice break at the operatic high note, but no one notices anyways as with the next hit of a triangle, Blaze Claymore steps past the threshold in his apparently new aesthetic – at least for facing the Red Army.

His mix of powder and royal blue glimmers under the lights as thousands of rhinestones glisten like rainbows. He reaches out and takes Sonja’s hand as the pair make their way down to the ring with his Blaze Gaze (™) set firmly on the middle of the ring and taking up all the time we would normally spend on handing out autographs.

As the Main Event reaches the end of the rampway, Sonja takes his sunglasses and helps him remove his robe, throwing it deftly over her arm, watching as Blaze slides into the ring.

Richard Parker: Like I said, BIG match. Claymore is a smaller guy.

Nick Stuart: Got it the first time.

The crowd readies and rising crimson bleeds throughout the arena. “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir erupts from the PA system and immediately the crowd turns sour.

Vince Howard: Introducing, from Arkhangelsk, Russia….

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Vince Howard: Standing seven-feet-one-inch tall and weighing in at four-hundred-pounds… he is a former two-time Universal Champion and the leader of The Red Army. IVAAAAANNNN STAAAAAANNNISSSSLLAAAVVVV!!!!

Richard Parker: Wait a second, Vince said HEIGHT! YOU said ring announcers don’t typically say height!

Nick Stuart: No, YOU said that. And it’s likely a propaganda script. You think Ivan and co. didn’t corner Vince long ago and give him these ‘announcement demands’?

Richard Parker: I’m still saying conspiracy theory. Someone else is writing Vince at the moment.

Nick Stuart: Maybe a few different people are writing Vince at the moment.

Richard Parker: Oh. Oh I like that take!

A curtain of white-hot pyro explodes across the stage as the huge form of Ivan Stanislav emerges through the smoke, sending it curling and wafting away.

With shoulders squared and posture rigid, Stanislav walks with inexorable gravity. It’s a slow, methodical gait of a man who had endured Hell not two weeks ago, but refuses to fall. Behind him, grinning and waving at the crowd, walks Alexei Ruslan. He jabs his fingers at some of the jeering Minnesotans.

Nick Stuart: And there’s Stanislav. His match against Chandler Tsonda at UltraViolence was one of, if not the, most brutal match we’d ever witness, and now he’s walking again to compete in the Almasy. But do you think Ivan is moving a little slower than normal?

Richard Parker: Slower? Please. Ivan moves at whatever pace he wants to move and there’s no one in PRIME who can stop him. That’s Soviet discipline! You think Ivan needs to sprint to the ring in order to have a match with Blaze Claymore?

The Soviet duo descends the ramp. Ivan says nothing. Not a sneer. Not a bark. He steps up onto the apron and glides over the top rope, stomping around the ring like he owns it. Ruslan snatches the microphone from Howard and screeches to the crowd.

Alexei Ruslan: Behold! Minnesota and the world! Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav! The preeminent winner of Almasy Tournament! He is unstoppable!

Richard Parker: …able!

Alexei Ruslan: He is unbeatable!

Richard Parker: …able!

Alexei Ruslan: He is indefatigable!!

Richard Parker: ….defat–

Nick Stuart: Will you knock it off, brown-noser!

Alexei stares at the hard came and smirks, while Ivan rolls his shoulders.

Alexei Ruslan: Every one of you are on borrowed time. And the clock starts NOW!

He tosses the microphone to Howard, who climbs out of the ring. Ruslan meets Ivan in the center of the ring and smirks, speaking quietly to him in Russian. But Ivan doesn’t nod, or smile, or smirk, or speak. Ruslan finally exits the ring, leaving the Bear to his match.

…

Before the bell rings, however, the Pop Culture Phenoms arrive in a suite above the hard camera. Elise Ares and The D collapse on chairs, as D waves to Blaze Claymore and Blaze… well, he waves back but rather quickly, not wanting to take his eyes off the massive Russian. Sonja is also on the outside reminding Blaze what he should be doing with his time. While it’s clear the evil communist bear is hurting significantly, he’s not a force to brush over.

Referee Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell and the match is off!

DING DING

Stanislav lunges forward, with his big tree trunk arms looking to bear hug Claymore and potentially get this over with rather quickly. However, Blaze slides to the right and hits the ropes. He raises his right boot, looking to knock Stanislav in the side of the head with a yakuza kick…

WHAM!

It shockingly lands! The blow is stunning because Blaze gets his foot right up and under Ivan’s jaw, in almost a jumping yakuza kick, since Ivan is a solid foot taller than the dubbed Main Event. Stanislav lumbers backwards, completely shaken up by the move. Meanwhile Cuchilla is on the outside jumping up and down and Ruslan’s eyes nearly fall out of his head!

Claymore glances into the PCP bleacher and points to them before hitting the ropes again.

WHAM!

Nick Stuart: A SECOND yakuza kick gets Stanislav on his knees!

Richard Parker: Oh my god! We’ve got our victory!?

Of course, Parker’s mind is already at the end of the match. But as Blaze pounds his right leg with his right arm and takes off into the ropes for GO #3… this time he nails a full blown missile dropkick square into Ivan’s face!

SPLAT!

Nick Stuart: Stanislav is down! I repeat, Stanislav is down!

Richard Parker: Upset of the tournament!

Luckily for Claymore, Stanislav is on his back already. All Blaze has to do is jump on top and try to hook a leg.

Sonja can’t look!

ONE!

TWO!

STRONG, ALBEIT LAST SECOND KICKOUT!

The crowd boos as the Russian man shows he won’t be punted from the tournament just yet. Instead, Stanislav shows signs of life as he rolls onto a knee, and then a leg.

Blaze realizes he has to keep this going. What’s another shot into the ropes? And another missile dropkick square to the face?

SPLA-

SWOOSH!

Ivan moves out of the way at the last second! The big man fumbles into the ropes, then rebounds with a hellacious clothesline, taking Claymore’s head off (not really) in the process!

Blaze is a heap on the mat, and Ivan Stanislav, realizing he ALMOST lost the tournament before it even started, begins seeing red.

Real red.

Army red.

The legend from Russia peels Claymore off the mat and tosses Blaze, like a ragdoll, all one-hundred-eighty pounds of him, into a corner. Claymore is propped up in there, as Ivan screams and boulders himself forward with a running shoulder to the head!

Like a flea, Stanislav flicks Claymore back to the center of the ring and pounces in again with a knee under Claymore’s jaw.

Cuchilla cringes upon impact. Blaze is shot in the air, like a canon and lands stomach-first on the mat. Stanislav glares at Ruslan, while Alexei gives that slight little nod, almost like he’s ‘allowing’ Stanislav permission to do his worst.

…Like Stanislav needed the permission to begin with.

Ivan stomps over to Blaze, yanking him off the mat and throwing him into a vicious bear hug before suplexing Claymore practically out of the ring, if it wasn’t for the ropes to save him. Claymore ricochets off the ropes and onto the canvas again.

This time he’s not even moving.

Richard Parker: Well, Minnesota is watching the death of a man. And to think, it started off so well.

Nick Stuart: You literally thought it was over! You said Blaze had won!

Richard Parker: I did? No such thing.

Stanislav drags Claymore to his feet and tosses him around the ring by his neck a couple of times. From corner to corner, rope to rope, Claymore is at the mercy of The Russian Bear and Sonja doesn’t like it. Finally, looking to put Blaze out for good, Ivan drags his opponent onto his feet. With one large, right hand, he holds Blaze’s head in place. Then Stanislav rears back his head and smashes it forward, driving his forehead into Claymore’s.

A deafening headbutt!

Claymore looks to be out, so Stanislav lets go and he filters to the floor.

Ivan drops down on one knee. He places both hands across Claymore’s chest, engulfing the guy as he does, and the referee counts.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

The crowd is stunned for a second time! PCP is also feeling it, as D smacks Ares on the chest. Inside the ring, Blaze rolls onto his side… but Ivan Stanislav isn’t going to let this go any further. He snatches Claymore and whips him into the ropes-

MASSIVE DROPKICK TO THE CHEST, Claymore to Stanislav.

Blaze pops to his feet. He bounces off the ropes again and this time lands a spinning heel kick!

Nick Stuart: Claymore is using A LOT of the ropes in this match.

Richard Parker: Can’t blame him, look at the size difference. It’s a smart play!

Stanislav is reeling, and Claymore has a second wind, albeit nowhere near 100% himself. His mind is likely spinning, given the headbutt he received earlier. Claymore hits the ropes once more, ducks a clothesline attempt and goes off the next set. Blaze leaps in the air, catches Ivan by the head and lands a DDT!

Nick Stuart: UNREAL! Blaze got Ivan off his feet and to the mat!

Claymore AGAIN shoots off into the ropes and lands a leg drop to the injured ribs of Stanislav!

Ivan bellows a painful cry as Claymore stares at the PCP press box with a facial expression begging them to tell them right then, right now, that he’s IN!

Perhaps this shouldn’t have happened. Because Stanislav is fumbling to a vertical base and he is super, SUPER, SUPER pissed off.

The looming giant is now behind Blaze Claymore. And yet, the Hollywood, CAL native knows it. He has eyes in the back of his head (or maybe it’s Sonja shouting at him) because Claymore ducks and slides away from the dreaded bear hug attempt and sidekicks Ivan in the back of the right knee. Stanislav’s knee buckles; he almost falls over. And once again, Claymore gives a quick “see!” glance into the PCP booth and shoots off the ropes-

TRIPPED UP!

BBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nick Stuart: Alexei got his hand in there and Jimmy didn’t see it!

It was clever. It was fast. It was smooth. Because Alexei Ruslan was looking into the crowd the whole time and shouting Russian to a fan. That’s why Jimmy didn’t see it.

Cuchilla did. But nothing she can do now.

Blaze stumbles forward. It’s just enough time for Ivan to knock his right knee back into the ‘feeling okay’ zone before narrowing his eyes on Blaze and destroying the poor guy with a clothesline to the back of the head.

Commence the COMMUNIST STOMPS of DOOM.

STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. But there’s not as many as Ivan would like to deliver, because his right knee is seemingly hurting. He takes a moment to walk back to the center of the ring, which is probably a good thing, because the referee was telling him there’s a rope break, anyway.

More interference! Now with the ref’s back behind him, Alexei jumps onto the apron and starts pushing Claymore’s neck down on the bottom rope, choking him!

It’s a choke that won’t last long, but it does enough damage. Sonja isn’t happy, she starts marching to Ruslan’s side of the ring so Alexei pussyfoots away.

Ivan, meanwhile… his face doesn’t even register a thank you to Alexei. His eyes are locked on Claymore. He wants to finish this off and move to the next round.

He drags Blaze to his feet in a belly-to-belly position and then uses his body and the canvas mat as the pressure between Claymore’s own flesh.

SLAM!

Nick Stuart: Ivan with a cover!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Maybe that shouldn’t have happened. Maybe Claymore should’ve stayed down. The Russian Bear growls upon the notion he has to physically expel more energy. He peels Blaze off the mat-

DESPERATION JAWBREAKER!

Stanislav shoots in the air and hits the mat on his ass, sitting there. Claymore once again glances into the PCP booth while The D is about to have a stroke, telling Blaze to “get on with it!” and finish the match! So Claymore does, or tries to at the very least. Blaze runs into the ropes and dropkicks Stanislav, who’s just getting up.

Ivan stumbles into a corner and falls over.

It’s bronco buster time! Claymore races in and performs The Blockbuster across Stanislav’s chest!

The Russian screams bloody murder as Claymore hops up and down on Ivan’s ribs, a few of them previously broken at UV.

Richard Parker: Don’t like the move, Nick. But in this scenario, it’s a hell of a call!

Claymore leaps off Stanislav and moves to the middle of the ring. It looks like the finishing touches are going to be performed-

When Alexei Ruslan is on the apron and shouting more Russian propaganda at Claymore!

Sonja’s had enough! She joins him up there!

As Blaze points towards the EVIL manager to get off the apron, he also looks into the press box once more, maybe to ask for a little help… no one is sure.

Doesn’t matter because it’s already too late.

Ivan Stanislav has pulled himself upright.

He charges in with a PISS FULL of rage.

WHAM!

Clothesline! It flips Blaze Stanislav inside-out in the process.

Stanislav drags his opponent to his feet again.

WHAM!

A second clothesline. But Stanislav isn’t done. He pulls Claymore up again.

WHAM!

Clothesline number three.

WHAM!

Four.

WHAM!

Five!

Stanislav drops down for the pin.

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPES!

The crowd is stunned and so is PCP! D shoves Ares as if to be like ‘WHOA WTF YEAH’ or whatever D would say. Stanislav looks over at Ruslan, and Ruslan takes a solid gulp of stress.

However, Stanislav is not going to be denied. Not this time. This time he’s going for another clothesline.

Not a regular one.

It’s his personal clothesline, of short-arm variety.

The Iron Curtain.

Sonja Cuchilla screams in a perfect pitch voice… but it doesn’t matter.

The Russian Bear hits and lands perfectly.

Nick Stuart: Blaze’s lights are out!

Stanislav makes the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner… Ivan Stanislav!

The look inside the PCP press box shows Ares and D simply watching on without further expression, as the ref raises Ivan’s right arm. It’s clear the bear is hurting, his arm doesn’t go all the way up. It also looks like Stanislav wants to try and grab his ribs, but he doesn’t. He simply drops his hand, tells Jimmy to get out of the way, and lumbers to the apron, where Alexei is waiting for his friend.

Nick Stuart: You know, Blaze showed a ton of heart tonight. Ivan is NOT beaten often!

Richard Parker: Blaze took it to Ivan early, I’ll give him that. He withstood numerous clotheslines, too. But The Iron Curtain was, in fact, curtains on his Almasy.

Nick Stuart: (Not impressed) Did you think of that line all by yourself?

Richard Parker: (Oblivious) I did, indeed.

We cut backstage.

Sebastian Gold, his arm in a sling, a limp in his step, approaches Nate Colton in the locker room. The New Diamond doesn’t look happy at all, though that has nothing to do with Sebastian. Or the match result, honestly. Dealing with Joe Fontaine just does this to you.

Sebastian Gold: Hey Nate!

Nate looks up, a flash of anger in his eyes…one that he quickly dims with a deep breath. Gotta set a good example for the boys.

Nate Colton: Hey, Bash. Good to see you; I’ll make sure my kid brother says hi when he comes back.

Sebastian Gold: Yeah, yeah, I don’t think I’ve officially met Blake. Look, I’ll…I’ll just get this out of the way.  I’m stopping by to give this back.

He digs into his bag and pulls out the mangled, still somehow smoking wreckage of the Belmont Trophy.

Sebastian Gold: Some Belmont winner I turned out to be. I couldn’t hold onto it, and it became an almost-murder weapon. I thought beating Dawkins would make everything right, but Crash is still in the hospital, my arm’s still busted, and it’s still all my fault. Maybe this’ll make it right.

The ruined trophy CLUNKS on the locker room bench where Gold sets it down.

Sebastian Gold: I don’t deserve this, Nate. Give it to the guy I beat. He probably won’t land it in an evidence locker.

Nate Colton stares down at the lump of twisted metal that used to be the Belmont Classic Trophy. A rare prize in the world of wrestling, one that can only be claimed once a year…and once in a lifetime.

Revered. Almost holy. Not just to Nate and his family, but everyone immortalized in its engravings…and a lot of people who aren’t.

Now…desecrated. Destroyed beyond recognition, both physically and emotionally.

To see what has become of it…it makes Colton’s heart break. It makes his blood boil. It makes his fist clench in fury. After an uncomfortably long silence, he finally says…

Nate Colton: Fuck that.

Sebastian Gold: Really?

Nate Colton: That trophy is a symbol of greatness…but it’s just a symbol. You still went into St. Louis last year and beat five wrestlers in three nights. That’s an impossible task. It cannot be done…and you did it. Nobody can take that away from you…

Nate holds up a finger, conveying that he’s not quite done making his point. Not until he points it right at Action Bastion, poking him in the chest.

Nate Colton: …unless you let them.

There’s a fierceness in Nate’s eyes and tone that takes Sebastian aback. He flashes back to that night. He was on a losing streak. Convinced his career as a wrestler would be even more pathetic than his career as a stuntman. Winning the Belmont changed all that. Gave him the confidence he needed to survive Colossus and eventually take the Alias belt. It all started here. With this twisted lump of junk on the bench. But then, wasn’t it always a twisted piece of metal. Now it’s just in a different shape. Why should that make it mean any less?

Quietly, Bash takes the trophy and places it back in his bag.

Sebastian Gold: You’re right. Dawkins has already taken enough from me. I won’t let him take this too.

He gives Nate a weary smile.

Sebastian Gold: Needed that. Thanks for knocking me off the pity pot, bro.

Nate Colton: The only person who needs pity is the next one who messes with you.

Sebastian Gold: Hell yeah.

The bros fist-bump, and Seb turns to leave when he bumps right into a young man who just walked in. The youngster drops the ice pack he was carrying, and immediately scrambles to the floor for it.

Sebastian Gold: Woop, sorry bud. You lost?

Nate Colton: Nah. He’s with me. In fact…hey, little bro. Someone I want you to meet.

Indeed, it’s Blake Colton. He stands up and quietly hands the ice pack to his older brother, who places it against his head.

Nate Colton: Blake, this is Sebastian Gold. He won the Belmont Classic last year.

Sebastian Gold: Hiya.

Sebastian offers a hand.

Nate Colton: And this…is my little brother, Blake Colton.

In spite of the physicality and frustration he went through earlier tonight, Nate can’t help but smile.

Nate Colton: He’s gonna win it next year.

Blake accepts Gold’s handshake…tentative at first, like he still doesn’t think he belongs.

He will, though. Someday soon. Just a matter of time.

We leave the Gold Colton connection to the biggest question of the night. Where is our Bald Hero? The Miracle Man of the masses. The world has questions and we do too because all the camera picks up right away is Jack Marley. Jack stands behind the table. Yep…The Miracle Enterprise Merch Table has returned to the wrestling world. This isn’t the pale IHOPs table. Oh no, this is the table of legend. Jack is gleefully talking to a customer who is heard haggling.

Customer: Is the Snow Globe…you know…

Jack Marley: AMERICAN MADE? YES SIR!

Customer: Uh no, is it you know…Daytona approved?

Jack Marley: It’s approved for all ages!

Customer: Huh?

The customer turns and walks away leaving Jack without a sale. A long loud sigh is heard and the camera cuts to the side to see an annoyed Steve Harrison sitting down with his head laying down on the table looking at Jack.

Steve Harrison: Just say yes, you dolt.

He moves his head off the table and he begins to sweat as his face gets red.

Steve Harrison: We need to make money, JACK! Do I have to do everything? Sell new items. Find Ellis. Pay off bills to…well everyone and Clean the belt…

Jack Marley: (Points at Steve and winks) Not a problem now!

Harrison pauses as he looks down at his empty waist.

Steve Harrison: Thanks for the reminder, Jack. Do you want to stab me in the eye too? Hey Doc, you want to get from behind the camera and kick me in the balls?

Doc: I’m good, Steve!

Steve Harrison: Oh great to know. Glad you two are in such high spirits while I am walking around Minnesota NAKED! My precious Five Star Championship ripped from my grasp by a blind referee and handed to those phony hacks doing the boss’s bidding.

Doc: The title was good, Steve but don’t forget that you have other responsibilities now. I hate to say it but I think the title took your focus away.

The Miracle Man grunts at that comment by Doc.

Steve Harrison: Does SHE write down everything for you to say now too? Don’t respond. The whole point of you joining The Octopus is so I have someone I can trust, Doc. Instead I am pretty sure you are a snitch. And you, Jack, what the hell happened? If I say you are part of MY family then I expect you to follow me first.

Doc: You can always trust me, but I also have a very personal relationship with your mom.

Steve Harrison: Don’t remind me.

Doc: Well…

The Immortal Jellyfish shakes his head at Doc. Doc still holding the camera goes silent so it would seem they listen once in a while.

Steve Harrison: No.

Jack Marley: (Looks sternly at Steve) And it’s just a box of rain…

The man from which miracles sweat from his pores gives out an extra long sigh.

Steve Harrison: Just work the register, Jack. (Stands up and looks at camera) Show is almost over folks and we are quickly running out of all your favorites. (Looks around the table) Well…we still have about 97 pairs of T Shades left so it would seem the PRIME fans aren’t enamored with that hot shot rookie, Krancer Crumbs!

Ol’ Banditsbane gives the camera a shitty smirk that only the yolkiest of people could also perform.

Steve Harrison: Let me make myself abundantly clear though. I am not done wth any of you disrespecting elitists. I will get that belt back. First though, (chuckles) my favorite group of wrestlers come knocking at my door again with a new contestant: Tony Gamble. At the Almasy I will begin to climb back up from the Pit that these jealous wrestlers are trying to force me to live in again. Those like minded people though…heh…don’t worry we are ready.

The camera pans right, and there is fabby, standing there expectantly. As though waiting for a cue that isn’t going to come from Steve Harrison. It’s often rare to see the Fabulous Gold Mask around without Joe Fontaine in his company, but Joe just had a war with Nate Colton and all. So, here a fabby stands.

Camera pans back to Jack Marley who looks up and locks eyes with fabbysaurous Rex. He squints like Fry from Futurama when his brain is melting from thinking.

Jack Marley: Look Steve it’s…FABBBBBY!

Harrison looks from Jack to the less confident fabby standing feet away from them. He stands up from the table and shakes his head.

Steve Harrison: I am certain he is not like-minded…you can handle this, right?

Jack Marley: Come on up, fabby, I gots whats you need, brotatochip!

With that The Miracle Man takes his leave.

The mysterious masked man who isn’t so mysterious steps up. He makes a few gestures, clearly trying to communicate in sign language with the hopes that Jack understands that Joe needed his replacement 8-iron like yesterday.

Jack turns around and starts rifling through items and then turns around holding a foot long subway meatball sub.

Jack Marley: Not sure what damage a meatball sub can do but give Joe OUR best!

Jack hands fabby the meatball sub, and he stands there holding it, completely unsure what to do and completely unable to communicate this because his hands are now full of sandwich.

Jack Marley: NOM-NOM-NOM-SMASH!?!

fabby tilts his head quizzically, unsure of what to make of this sandwichtuation. He shrugs his shoulders and walks off with the sandwich, clearly confused.

Jack nods and waves at him. He looks at the camera and talks to Doc.

Jack Marley: All out of meatball sandwiches now or what Glue calls an 8-Iron, Steve is going to be proud of me!

Doc: I don’t think any of what you said is correct. I am fairly certain that was Steve’s dinner.

The scene fades and cuts to the last commercial before the big Main Event tonight between a Whoresman and a Slut.

The people of Minneapolis smell the Golden Ticket in the air as they start to take their seats, ready for continuing Almasy action, with an opportunity like no other on the line. As the murmurs of excitement begin to quiet, we cut to the entrance way.

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles is putting in all on the line in every match of the Almasy… he wants that extra motivation to keep him ticking and kicking.

Richard Parker: Ticking and kicking? What planet am I on right now? Look, Nick, I’m here and I’m excited that I may be witnessing the end of Cancer Jiles career, I don’t think my heart could sing more if I see it happen right in front of me.

Nick Stuart: Well the first man planning to collect on that Golden Ticket is Harley Walker. We saw him return to action against Blaze Claymore a few shows back, so we know he’s ring ready, but is he ready for the pressures of a match like this.

Richard Parker: He’s a stuntman, he’s used to the pressure, he’ll deliver what all good and righteous people want.

The lights dim down as the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. PRIMEView presents us with a black and white video of a cannon, sitting at the edge of a mountain. Above the cannon is a countdown.

Three, two, one – BOOM!

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is an Almasy Tournament First Round Contest with THE GOLDEN TICKET on the line. Introducing first, the “Lightning Boyyyyy” HARLEYYYY WALKERRRRRRR!

The cannon makes a loud pop and a poof of smoke flies across the cannon, slowly turning into the words “Lightning Boy”. Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage. He parks for a second to take in the crowd and a couple more puffs of his cigarette.

Richard Parker: Not sure if this is poor match tactics, or fuel to ensure he gets the job done.

Nick Stuart: I doubt Harley knows either, calculation is not a part of his extensive list of strengths.

Richard Parker: And I’m sitting here hoping he adds “cockroach career ender” to that list by the end of the night.

After tossing the cigarette to the side, he gets off the motorcycle, taps the seat three times, and then leaves her to make his way down the rest of the ramp, and into the ring. This is where you would anticipate some form of high production entrance, perhaps with Wolf Totem, perhaps not. Yet there is no Totem, there is no Screamin’, there is…

STOP.

DROP.

AND DRAG ME INTO PLACE.

Catching both Harley Walker in the ring, as well as the entire Target Center by surprise, the Universal Champion makes an appearance with a purposeful walk down to ringside.

Richard Parker: Are all of my Christmases happening at once? I guess I was a very good boy this year.

Nick Stuart: It’s June!

Richard Parker: Exactly, Christmas in the Summer, just like they do on the continent.

You can hear an almost audible sigh from Nick Stuart’s headset as the Universal Champion does a little bit of glad handing, Walker keeps a firm eye on Cecilworth, who tries his best to give a “not here to cause you any trouble” vibe back to Harley. Farthington grabs a headset as the camera fades back to the entrance way, “Choke” slowly fading down.

Nick Stuart: It does appear the Universal Champion is joining us for this Golden Ticket contest.

Cecilworth Farthington: It only makes sense Nick! Whoever comes out of the tournament with that ticket is gunning for me and the Universal Championship, I’m here to take a close look at any potential opponent I may face…

Richard Parker: And to see Cancer Jiles lose his job.

Cecilworth Farthington: And to see Cancer Jiles lose his job.

As the echoing powerhouse broadcast tandem of Farthington and Parker get comfortable.

The lights dim.

A COOL breeze makes its way through the air.

Up on the Crumbo the COOLest superkick montage in the business hits like a panic attack of the asshole.

Then, the most recognizable guitar riff reverberates through space and time.

BOOOO!!!!!!

Nick Stuart: Guys, I’m sitting here thinking… do we even know if JIles is in the building? There’s been no Pinnacle of all Crumbs. There’s been no backstage visit to the Principal’s Office. He didn’t show up during the Cold Open. I mean, his career is on the line, right? Is he trying to say something here and maybe we’re not hearing it?

Richard Parker: If it is I quit, and I’m too terrified to even look at this man sitting here next to me, well then, okay I’m listening.

The Champion nods along agreeably.

Then, he smiles widely.

As if he knows something.

The montage cuts off, as does Screamin’ Jay. The abruptness of it all also brings the crowd to a sudden halt. Harley looks around wondering if he could survive a fall from the nosebleeds, presumably, or he’s just wondering what is going on like everyone else.

Most everyone else.

The Gluebotron comes to life.

Up on it…

…The Pinnacle of all COOL

Richard Parker: If this is what I think it is tonight could be the best night of my life.

Brandon Youngblood
Culture Shock 2022

It was the first ever Seymour Almasy Invitational Tournament. It was the final. Cancer Jiles till then had his way with the field, collecting a Golden Ticket along the way. Then, he met PRIME’s PILLAR. The Suplex Daddy. The guy on the other side of the bracket, Brandon Youngblood. Not once. Not twice. But three Randalplexses later and it was lights out for KING COOL and the first of his many failures.

Nick Stuart: How did you get Lindsay Troy to narrate this?

Cecilworth Farthington: Super advanced North Korean AI.

Richard Parker: What’s it called?

Cecilworth Farthington: CarteBlanchGPT

Brandon Youngblood
ReVival 8

It was time to cash in the Golden Ticket, and Cancer JIles would go to deplorable lengths to ensure that this time around he wouldn’t come up short. Yet, even after a crippling faceoff, a Golden Ticket cash in, a horse’s head, and a FURST BLUD match  in his favor, STILL the biggest prize in all of the Universe eluded him.

Richard Parker: I’m buying this episode on DVD. And VHS. And whatever other medium I can.

Nick Stuart: Poor Harley.

Hayes Hanlon
ReVival 11

Hanlon at the time of the match was just a child. As such, it was supposed to be a walk in the park for Cancer JIles. He was reeling from the bitterness of defeat, but was once again cockroaching around — and like I said Hanlon was just a mere child at the time, wrestling in only a handful of matches prior to their FIRST encounter. In the end, the literal rookie upstart showed why he would go on to do bigger and better things, and Cancer Jiles would roll back down the mountain.

Hayes Hanlon
COOLOSSUS 2022

Richard Parker: Nice touch with the COOLOSSUS– I think I heard his neck snap from the noose.

Cecilworth Farthington: Thank you.

It was the biggest show of the year. Somehow, Cancer Jiles, had captured that which had eluded him. Finally, he was the Universal Champion, after cheating and stealing his way to the belt. However, karma would come back around to bite him much like it always does, and yet again, that rookie upstart hit another one out of the park, and defeated King COOL before he could ascend to COOLYMPUS.

Jared Sykes
ReVival 39

It was the second ever Seymour Almasy Invitational Tournament. That guy was once again the Golden Ticket, but this time around it was his to lose and not to gain. Enter Round 3. Enter fellow Hall of Famer, Jared F. Sykes. Enter an instant classic, with Banditry and not so much Banditry when it was needed. Enter a third round exit and another wasted opportunity. Enter, the guy with the shades sequestering himself to the brig for failing his brethren.

Richard Parker: I’m going to need to take a shower after this. Fuck, if he loses and has to retire I might legit die right here. I’m serious.

Nick Parker: How is he not out here already? Do you know something we don’t?

Cecilworth Farthington: No comment. Though, he is known for being notoriously late. I say we call this thing now. I’m sure Joe knows how to plan a retirement party.

Coral Avalon
UltraViolence 2024

The Battle of the Bandits. The Captain versus The Eggsecutioner. The UNIVERSE was at stake. The helm of the ship was at stake. The King of the Carton was at stake. Jiles might have beaten Coral the year prior and subsequently kidnapped him into becoming an eGG Bandit, but this time around when all was said and yolked, one man’s unrivaled Ascension continued on while the other was left cockroaching on his back yet again.

Richard Parker: Love it, and fuck him because he deserves it.

Nick Stuart: Agreed, but man would I hate to be Harley Walker.

Steve Harrison
ReVival 65

Five stars and five shows ago, Steve Harrison, bald man, did what no one outside of him and his consortium thought possible, defeat Cancer Jiles for the 5-Star Championship. Yet, he did it. He really, really did it. Sure, Jiles had won the belt for his girlfriend and she was more upset about losing it than he was, but Harry was a Henderson. He was someone from the past. Someone who had climbed out of the same pit as Jiles had. While the belt might have meant nothing, another crippling MAIN EVENT loss to Christmas Past sure did.

Richard Parker: I wonder who is next?

Nick Parker: Harley Walker from the look of it.

Richard Parker: Shut up, Nick! You’re going to ruin this whole fucking thing.

Cecilworth Farthington
UltraViolence 2025

Ha.

Richard Parker: Perfect. Just, total chef’s kiss perfect.

Nick Stuart: IF Jiles is here I don’t think I’m breaking any branches by saying he might kill someone tonight.Though, maybe he missed the whole thing? Maybe he’s not even here yet? You did say he was notorious for being late.

Cecilworth Farthington: I said he was notoriously late.

Nick Stuart: There’s a difference?

Harley Walker
ReVival 70

Getting fired out of our canon, soon….

Nick Stuart: Well, that’s that and still no Cancer? Wait a second. I’m getting word that there’s something happening backstage.

The Crumbo switches off yet again, but this time around when it comes back to life it’s the backstage area. More specifically, the talent entrance. There, a red door is just waiting to be opened. There, and for maybe the first time since Philadelphia, a cheer can be heard in anticipation of what to come.

More like, who is to come.

Richard Parker: Sounds like Bobby is in the stands.

After anticipation builds even further the door swings open and in walks Vickie Hall and King COOL. They appear unbothered by the recent events, and are also missing about five Bandits. Jiles is wearing his ring gear, and appears mildly disheveled, as if he were having relations prior to the match and that is why he is showing up now, or he had to crawl out of a window because his door was glued shut.

Or maybe some other reason.

Regardless of which, The Golden Ticket has arrived, and he’s now making his way down to the ring.

Nick Stuart: I guess we’re going to have a first round retirement match after all.

Instead of sliding under the rope Jiles makes his way over to commentary, and… and instead of tearing Cecilworth’s head off and shoving it up Richard Parker’s ass while Nick Stuart videotapes the whole thing on Daytona Diamonds cell phone, he nods in approval. Well, he curses a bunch, and you can tell it hurts him having to admit something like that — fondness — but then you remember there’s a daredevil in the and feel even sorrier for him.

Nick Stuart: Well I’m glad that is over with… for now.

Before entering the ring Jiles passes off his T-shades to his Valkyrie. Then, he turns his attention to the matter at hand. Which of course is defending his Golden Ticket and prolonging his career for another round.

While looking COOL doing it.

Referee Elvis Nixon does a final check of both men, because… well… they’re Harley Walker and Cancer Jiles, but he feels satisfied enough to call for the bell.

Ding Ding 

Nick Stuart: And this one is officially underway and let me just…

Richard Parker: OH GOD! TERMINAL CANCER!

Cecilworth Farthington: WHAT KIND OF CRUEL GOD WOULD ALLOW THIS TO HAPPEN?

The immediate horror from both Parker and Farthington is due to a little situation that happened the second Nixon called for the bell. Jiles immediately pushes Nixon out of the way and sees an immediate opportunity to strike with PRIME’s toughest boot. There’s enough distance and Walker and Jiles both know this as Jiles throws up the kick…

Cecilworth Farthington: Okay, maybe there is a god.

But Walker, as fresh a man as Walker could ever be had the senses of an old stuntman and saw it coming, flops down to the mat as if he was back in his stuntman man days, causing Jiles to make contact with nothing but air. The holder of the Golden Ticket hops up and down for a second, trying to catch himself due to the levels of spice and spin he puts on the kick, and with this brief moment of distraction, Walker sweeps the one leg Jiles still has planted on the mat and sends him crashing down. Walker is ready to follow through, taking an immediate mount on Jiles and throwing fist left, right and Target Center.

Nick Stuart: This one was almost over before it began, but those old instinct’s of Walker’s kicked in at just the right time to avoid that boot of Jiles.

Richard Parker: The man just got out of his wheelbarrow based semi-death, the fact he was as sharp in that reaction is impressive, and now the momentum has shifted.

Cecilworth Farthington: I do like it when The Cancer Jiles gets punched in the face.

Jiles is still fresh enough that he’s guarding a lot of the punches that come flying and flowing from the direction of Walker, but not enough to stop every hammerfist from smacking him just below the alfredo hairline. Walker’s punches are wild and aggressive, which opens up enough space for Jiles to swing the momentum and push Walker off, scrambling back up to his feet as he tries to shake his head clear for the game plan. Walker rolls through from the shove and like a cannonball, rushes right back into the recovering Jiles and smashes right into the Guts of Cool with a powerful spear that sends both men crashing to the mat. As Jiles goes down, he manages to position himself enough that as both men fall, Walker’s forehead bounces off the middle turnbuckle. Jiles tries his best to keep all of his guts inside of himself because he needs them for many vital body functions, and gasps for air, as he looks at the either napping or unconscious Walker and thinks he knows just the thing to do.

Nick Stuart: You have to give credit to Jiles here, he had the veteran instincts enough to position the spear to cause both men damage, as opposed to more or less absorbing the whole thing.

Cecilworth Farthington: Dragging people down with him is very on brand for Jiles, good point Nick.

Nick Stuart: That’s not what I was sayin…

Richard Parker: NO! NO! NONONONONONO!

The rapid and sudden panic from Dirty Dick himself is due to the fact that Jiles has managed to roll over and drape his arm atop Walker, who still seems very much out of it after the whole turnbuckle incident. Elvis Nixon checks and it is in fact a valid pin.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Walker was close enough to the ropes to get his left leg up on the bottom rope, breaking the count. Jiles curses himself, probably thinking “you always gotta hook the leg” in his inner dialogue at this exact moment in time.

Richard Parker: YES! That’s right Harley! You keep fighting!

A frustrated Jiles looks over at Elvis Nixon, giving deep consideration to knocking out the referee with a taste of the salt shoes, but perhaps decides as entertaining as that may be, it’s not “career sacrificing” levels of entertainment. As Jiles jaws off and holds up 3 fingers, a bit of spark and light returns to the eyes of Harley Walker, who uses the ropes to support him in getting back up to an even base, positioning just behind Jiles, who is still jaw jacking with Nixon. Walker leaps up and hits a picture perfect Keaton Kick right the back of Jiles’ full exposed and unprotected skull. Of course, the kick was perhaps a little too perfect, as the force of the blow sends Jiles flying forward into Elvis Nixon, sending both men tumbling down, and that’s when Nixon’s head collides with the mat in a very basketball-esque way.

Richard Parker: You gotta be careful with falls like this, now I have to start a nine month timer on Nixon.

Nick Stuart: It’s certainly a nasty fall but one I think he’ll survive.

Cecilworth Farthington: I hope so, my understanding is the smoke machine budget is getting out of control again.

Walker seems very unbothered by the collision he just created, instead wanting to keep his momentum going, he locks his arm around the dazed Jiles’ neck and begins as high speed a run as he humanly can, driving Jiles face first into the mat the Cannonball run. Walker lets out an excited roar, as if he can see the Golden Ticket in his future, as he sees that Cancer Jiles is flopping around on the mat like… some form of cockroach… some may say… some may say. For Walker, this is it, this is the moment, this is his chance at redemption and validation. He makes sure that Jiles is in position and begins to make his ascent to the tippity top of the top turnbuckle. Walker looks behind him for one final look of Jiles’ position and then prays to whatever cosmic forces he can as he leaps from the top with Guinness Record Breaking in his eyes and a Golden Ticket about to be in his arms…

Richard Parker: Yes! YES!

Cecilworth Farthington: Yes! YES!

Harley Walker flies in the air and twists himself into a picture perfect moonsault aimed straight at The Golden Ticket holder.

Nick Stuart: What incredible form Walker has with this! I don’t know if he had it in him to be able to…

Nick is interrupted by screeching noises from both of his broadcast colleagues for this match and these horror noises are quickly following by.

Richard Parker: No! NOOOOOOO!

Cecilworth Farthington: No! NOOOOOOO!

The Target Center let a flurry of boos descend down upon the ring, as when Harley was about to make contact, a wily veteran in Jiles, knowing the referee was still out on the mat, decided to lift one of his little salty shoes and kick it right into the junk of Harley Walker. Walker still lands on top of Jiles, and Jiles does pay for this move by having the air knocked out of him but Walker can’t follow up, rolling off Jiles as he goes to nurse his now very battered down under area zone.

Richard Parker: Even the most experienced stuntman would struggle to fight through the pain for a boot that brutal. Elvis Nixon needs to do something and fast! Disqualify the man! Get him out of here!

Cecilworth Farthington: TAKE HIS COAT! TAKE HIS TICKET!

Nick Stuart: You both know that Nixon saw none of that, he’s just started stirring again after the collision.

Jiles begins to shake the cobwebs free from the old “bulldog straight to hell” incident he just suffered. He sits up and looks over at Walker, who is writhing in agony from the high intensity ball shot, and a disgusted look takes over the face of Jiles (HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?”), as if Jiles was irate at the very idea that someone like Harley Walker would be the one to take him out of PRIME for good. Jiles looks to his other side and he sees that Elvis Nixon is slowly getting back up to his feet. He sees Harley doing the same. He knows what must be done. Jiles springs to his feet, with a bit of a groggy landing, he starts to take Walker’s measurements, not quite for a coffin, but certainly for a meeting at the Shoe Locker.

Cecilworth Farthington: HARVEY WALKING! USE YOUR MAGIC FALLING DOWN POWER AGAIN!

Nick Stuart: I’d be outraged if I wasn’t building up a degree of immunity to Jiles’ antics.

Richard Parker: He’s gonna miss again Nick, he’s gonna miss!

To avoid one Terminal Cancer is lucky, to avoid two is divine.

On this night, no deity was coming for Harley Walker, as Jiles smashes his face in with a picture perfect superkick. Walker immediately goes down and Jiles falls atop Walker, hooking the leg and rolling over this time, putting as much weight as he can on the pin. Elvis Nixon crawls over for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE?

THREE!

Ding ding ding

There is the sound of a frustrated Universal Champion slamming down his headset, which catches a bunch of British babbling and a collision of words to make compound swear words in reaction to the events that have just occurred.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, advancing to the next round of the Almasy… CANCER JILES!

The camera cuts between a very self-satisfied Jiles having his hand raised by Elvis Nixon, and a stompin’ steamin’ mad Universal Champion who would probably jump on a top hat in anger if he had a top hat right now.

Nick Stuart: You know that when you step into the ring with Cancer Jiles, he’s not going to play fair. Harley Walker had a few tricks up his sleeve, but Jiles is the entire cabaret.

Richard Parker: It’s okay, it’s okay, there’s potentially four more matches, we are going to see the end of that man’s career in this tournament! We have to! This must end.

Jiles has quickly moved on from getting his arm raised to jaw jacking with the entire front row, almost intentionally avoiding any acknowledgement of Farthington.

Nick Stuart: Tonight was just the start, and what a start it has been… we’ll see you at the next ReVival as the Almasy action carries on!

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.